


On the First Day of Christmas, a Pureblood gave to me...

by MaesterChill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A partridge, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Auror Training, Courtesy charms, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, Frotting, Gift Giving, Idiots who won't communicate, M/M, Magical Contracts, Mutual Pining, Obliviousness, POV Alternating, POV First Person, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Pureblood Customs, Rimming, betrothal, getting drunk, wanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 37,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21629671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaesterChill/pseuds/MaesterChill
Summary: Harry receives a gift.Of a partridge.From Lucius Malfoy.Who's just been released from Azkaban.There's only one thing for it. He's going to have to ask Draco Malfoy what the hell's going on.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 206
Kudos: 309
Collections: Wireless Festive Minifest 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jeldenil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeldenil/gifts).



> This fic is based on the song prompt: 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'. 
> 
> The vague idea for the plot had been in my head for a while ever since Jeldenil prompted an idea in the Discord prompt channel which involved Lucius sending Harry ridiculous/unwanted gifts after the war. I've not stuck exactly to the letter of the prompt, Nadja, but I hope you find the fic entertaining nevertheless. 
> 
> HEAPS of love and appreciation to: the ever-fabulous [timothysboxers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timothysboxers/) for his ongoing support and alpha workshopping and making me laugh on a consistent and regular basis; to the unsinkable and big-hearted [Erin_Riwen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erin_Riwen/) for brainstorming gift ideas with me way back when this story was a tiny newborn pygmy-puff of a thing; and to the kind and _fiiierce_ [tackytiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/) for her cheerleading and betaing and threatening me with the wooden spoon.

If I had to pinpoint exactly when things went from the faintly ridiculous to the downright bizarre, it was probably around the day seven mark, although they had been steadily leading up to that from day one. _Hurtling_ towards bizarredom, you might say. And you wouldn’t be far wrong.

Potter would disagree of course. But then the plight of the bull-headed is that they never fail to miss what’s staring them in the face. And I suppose anything will seem run-of-the-mill when compared with finding out at eleven that you can do magic and then having to defeat a three-headed dog, a two-faced teacher inhabited by the darkest wizard there's ever been, and a one-eyed polyjuiced Order member.

In any event, we were where we were, in some sort of Mexican Wizarding stand-off the likes of which haven’t been seen or at least documented since my great great great aunt Ursa sent a fruit basket as a thank you gift to Wendemere and Gallston Burke and sparked a two-year gift-giving loop, which Mother still talks about to this day given half an opportunity and glass of Pedro Ximénez. 

The first I knew about the whole debacle, of course, was when the owl arrived at my window at the unseemly hour of 1.30am on the morning of December the 3rd. 

I reluctantly hauled myself out from under the eiderdown and opened the window to let the brown owl in, and a flurry of wet snowflakes along with it. 

_Malfoy!!!_ the parchment read. With not one, but _three_ vulgar exclamation marks. The handwriting was unmistakable, and my eyes forcibly rolled themselves in my head.

_Need your help! Come through tomorrow anytime after eleven. Floo address attached. Will explain all then._

_You’re a pal!_

_Harry,_ and then he'd added in brackets, _(Potter)._

My eyes were now aching from rolling. Honestly, what _other_ Harry did I know that would be boorish enough to send owls at such an ungodly hour?

I could scarcely believe it. ‘You’re a pal’? A _pal_? Draco Malfoy is nobody’s _pal_. The fact that I was helplessly in love with him was entirely irrelevant. If Potter thought that my sharing a drink with him and the rest of the Auror trainees every couple of weeks made us all _pals…_ well. 

Well, in all honesty, I hadn’t thought about it quite like that. And frankly I didn’t care to at that time of the morning. Which is why I cast aside the ridiculous summons, drew the curtains, snuggled under my duvet and went back to sleep.

* * *

It bloody pained me, but there was no other way. 

I was in over my head. I needed Malfoy’s help. Even _Ron_ agreed. 

And Neville. 

Yep, that’s right, I consulted Neville as well. Well, he’s pureblood too. But even he said this was beyond his knowledge or experience. Life with his gran didn’t cover such things. 

And I know what you’re going to say, but this was one thing that Hermione’s vast knowledge couldn't help me with. Didn’t stop her trawling the library for me anyway though, good egg that she is.

So, it had to be Malfoy. Ugh. Not that I disliked the bloke anymore, I just— I don’t know, hate asking him for help. I could just imagine his smuggery reaching epic proportions. 

I dithered so long over it that it was 1am before I summoned the balls to write to him. For some reason it was important to get the tone just right, not too familiar, I knew Malfoy hated that. His eyes went all squinty when I was too familiar, and he fidgeted with his collar.

I reckon I did alright though, because there he was at eleven on the dot the following morning, sharp in pressed navy-blue robes, hair shiny and neatly combed, pursing his pale pink lips as only a Malfoy can. 

I don’t know why I felt nervous, I saw him every bloody day at training school. Saw him raise slim fingers in class when he knew the answer to a question, watched his adam’s apple bob as he cleared his throat before answering. Heard his grunts as he dodged hexes in duelling training, the soft slurp he made as he took a first sip of ale, and the sigh of satisfaction as it went down. He was familiar to me now, in a multitude of benign ways, and I felt nothing of the wariness and distrust towards him like I had done at Hogwarts. So I really don’t know why there was a tightness coiling in the pit of my stomach. He’d never been in my house before, I suppose that was it. He was a pretty judgy git at the best of times.

Thankfully I’d read up on pureblood etiquette—well I had to, didn't I?—and Kreacher laid out elevenses in the Morning Room. Malfoy seemed to relax when I showed him through. I know _I_ did on seeing the two furrows bisecting his eyebrows disappear. 

“What exactly is it you require of me, Potter?" he snapped. Pretty ungraciously I thought, seeing as he’d been served the French Earl Grey I know he likes. Still, I had dragged him out here with no explanation, so I was lucky my balls were still between my legs and hadn’t been hexed to my forehead. 

“Er... well,” I began, and he rolled his eyes at me. He had a habit of doing that.

* * *

It was curious seeing Potter in his native habitat. He clearly doesn’t feel the need to shave at weekends, the shadow of stubble that eclipsed his face that morning giving him a rough veneer and leaving me a little on the nonplussed side. A feeling that wasn’t helped any by the tight orange t-shirt he was wearing and the Muggle sporting trousers that appeared to be an unsuitable size, if the way they were slung immodestly low on his hipbones was any indication. 

His aging house-elf showed me through to a well-appointed room where tea was poured from dainty teapot into matching china cups. Things were looking up. There were even saucers.

After several minutes, it became apparent Potter was having trouble getting to his point, and I was beginning to suspect there was in fact no point, and that he’d simply invited me around for over-steeped tea, own-brand custard creams, and the most awkward chat known to Wizarding kind. However, a few well-placed glares and barbed remarks on my part soon had him warbling like a dying jobberknoll. 

“Just spit it out, Potter, I haven’t got all day, and I’m in no mood for guessing games, having had an unexpected interruption to my sleep last night.”

“I need your help,” he gritted out in what looked to be a rather uncomfortable fashion. “I’ve been sent gifts.”

“Bully for you. I don’t see how—”

“Pureblood gifts. A custom of some sort, I need you to—”

“Oh no,” I held my hand up. “If you think I’m getting involved in some courting ritual you’ve got yourself entangled in, you can think again. You’re on your own with this, Potter. I can’t believe you—” _of all people_ , I thought but didn’t voice, “would expect me to help—”

“It’s your father,” Potter blurted.

“I beg your pardon? What about my father?”

“ _Well_ , he’s been sending me gifts. And I—”

“He’s been _what_? You’re trying to tell me _my father_ is wooing _you_? My father, who was released from Azkaban a mere eight days ago _and_ has been happily married for twenty-four years. Of all the outlandish—” 

“No Malfoy, you’ve got it wrong. But I can’t tell you if you keep on bloody interrupting.”

So I kept quiet. But it was a monumental struggle, I can tell you. 

“It started three days ago,” he explained, “when I received a random gift of a partridge, with a—”

“Wait, did you say a partridge? A partridge, as in the bird?” This was another interruption, granted, but, _be fair_ , he did just say ‘partridge’.

“Yeah. An actual bird in a cage, clucking like a bloody chicken and shitting everywhere, and there was a note saying,”—and here Potter produced a small embossed card from the pocket of his faded leisurewear—“ _‘To Mr Harry Potter, Please accept this token of my gratitude for your testimony on behalf of my wife and son. Further, it has come to my attention that my son owes you a life debt following events at the battle at Hogwarts. I seek your kinship on behalf of my obeisant son and heir, that we may ally our ancient families just as we were of old, before wars forced us to choose sides, and in doing so satisfy the covenant. Your humble confederate, Mr Lucius Malfoy.’_ … Well.” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “You can probably imagine how gobsmacked I was. Three years after the trials, to be sent a bizarre gift by someone who’d been in Azkaban up until a week ago?”

I felt the blood drain out of my face. “Quite. And you say this was sent on the first of December?”

“Er...yeah. _Yes_. Hermione wondered if it was related to that song, the Twelve Days of Christmas, y’know, with the partridge in the pear tree and all the gifts.”

“Yes, I'm familiar.” I did _not_ like where this was headed.

“Except minus the pear tree... but according to ‘Mione the lyrics are just a corruption of the French _une perdrix_ and apparently partridges are ground-nesting fowl anyway—”

“Potter, can I ask—” 

“—and Ron said he reckoned it could be part of some old pureblood tradition.”

“Yes, he might just be weaselling up the right tree there. Sorry, can you remind me what it said? It’s seeking _your_ kinship on _my_ behalf and is signed off ‘Your confederate’?” 

“Yes! Your _humble confederate_.” Potter declared in what he clearly thought was a posh accent. “And Ron told me that sounded important. It sounded like a load of twaddle to me, to be honest, and I was all for ignoring it and giving it a good old _Incendio_ , but Ron said we’d likely need to respond in the proper way. The proper pureblood way. Only... Ron wasn’t sure what the proper pureblood way was. Just... just that it was important.”

Oh Merlin, this was _not good_. I couldn’t believe Father was out of prison a wet week and scheming and machinating already.

“It _is_ very important, the last thing you need is to be locked into some sort of allegiance with my family.”

“ _Allegiance_? What?”

“Yes, if you don’t tread carefully here, we could be shackled together in a sort of partnership arrangement for life. And I don’t imagine that idea will be palatable to you.”

“We? What, you mean you and I? What sort of partners?”

“Precisely what I need to figure out. Most probably something akin to what's written in the note.”

“But it just sounds like bullshit pureblood waffle to me.”

“That bullshit pureblood waffle, as you call it, is—if I’m right—an archaic custom imbued with magical intricacies and ritualistic expectations and—if I remember correctly—is bloody difficult to get out of. My father appears to want to bind our families in some way. Worst case scenario, if we don’t follow the rules, you and I could end up betrothed.”

“What!” Potter jumped up. “Betrothed? Like engaged? To be married? What the fuck? No way!” His green eyes blazed in alarm. After a moment he stopped waving his arms about and placed his hands on the table. “Shit. I mean no disrespect, Malfoy, I mean... I mean, I think we’ve got used to each other during Eighth year and Auror training, we’ve had the odd drunken heart-to-heart, right? I’d even say we’re _pals_ now.” I blanched at that awful term, but he carried on earnestly. “But I’m afraid I really do not want to be allied to the Malfoys, never mind _betrothed_ to you, and _especially_ not simply because your dad insists on it. He’s— I know he's served his sentence but he’s a total dick. He’s been a dick to me, and to the Weasleys, and to loads of others. Partridges and hens and whatever else aren’t going to change that."

Potter was quite right. Although he’s my father, the man's been rather a dick to me as well—his own flesh and blood. And, despite the fact that the idea of being shackled forever to Potter was doing funny and wonderful things to my insides, I knew it would be a hollow union and most assuredly _not_ a situation I could stomach for long. Salazar, I sighed inwardly, it appeared I cared about the man. _Quelle surprise_. But I was hardly going to say all that out loud.

"Yes, I agree. My father's... _proposal_ is less than ideal. I suppose it’s too much to assume you sent back the appropriate gift, with a letter using the appropriate language to indicate your acceptance of his gift but declining his obeisant and humble confederacy, in the appropriate manner, and suggesting an alternative compensation for the life-debt... using the appropriate wording.”

Potter looked at me agape. I held his stare.

“Er. You said ‘appropriate’ a lot.”

I sighed. “What did you send him, Potter?”

“Well, see, Ron and I thought a nice thank you note and a posh pen might do the trick."

“A nice thank you note? And a sodding pen?”

“Not a sodding pen. It was a nice one, silver, with an engraving of turtle doves, like in the song. Ron said it’d fit, cause that’s the second day of Christmas. Turtle doves. Cost me fifteen bloody Galleons.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “From the look on your face, it was not the right thing.”

“No. Not... not quite. If it’s what I think it is, you’ve pretty much accepted you’ll go along with his terms. Still, if I’m right, we should have time to fix this.” I pinched the bridge of my nose to stem the headache that was threatening. “Has he responded?”

“Er, yes,” he said, standing and walking to the mahogany sideboard. He crouched down to retrieve something and his sporting trousers slid down a good inch. Incredibly, he appeared not to be wearing any underwear and, judging by the glimpse I got, his arse isn’t quite as tanned as his back is and it was all I could do not to spit my tea everywhere at the sight. I instead settled for choking on a large inhale, an inhale which was ninety percent hot earl grey. 

Potter turned and stood, saying, “So, he sent me this—” and then stopped in alarm.

* * *

Malfoy’s reaction to Lucius’s second gift was about on par with what I expected, and I immediately cast a Back-slapping Charm to help; Hermione’d been reading up on pureblood etiquette and delighted in telling a bewildered Ron and I that there were all sorts of spells that were deemed courteous to use to help a fellow wizard, particularly if they were a guest in your house: _Tergo Ledo_ for choking on dry biscuits, _Refrigo_ for too-hot tea (or, if you were too late, for scalded tongues), and _Kleenexium_ for those allergic to crups or flowers. They really are quite useful.

But back to the gift. I mean, who sends a twenty-year-old bloke a glass hen? Unbelievable. It was after I’d unwrapped that gift that Ron and I had pronounced the whole thing as bloody weird and fire-called Neville. He’d come through the Floo and we spent hours researching and got through two six-packs of Warlock’s Brew before giving it up for a bad job and realising Malfoy was the only option. 

“Thank you, Potter," he rasped. "Just some tea that went down the wrong way. _Finite Incantatum_.” The back slaps ceased. “Goodness, is that a Hen on Nest dish?” He paused to examine it, a secret smile stealing onto his face. “I love these. It’s antique and quite exquisitely made.” He turned and fixed cloudy grey eyes on me. “Show me the note.”

His eyes scanned over it and he tutted and hummed before sighing exaggeratedly. 

“As I suspected. By sending you the first gift, the partridge,”—here, his lips quirked up annoyingly—“my father has invoked the ancient pureblood custom of ‘Twelve Days of Equivocal Reciprocity’.”

I couldn’t hold back a snort at that. “Ooh, that’s got a nice ring to it,” I said, and began to sing, “ _On the first day of Equivocal Reciprocity, my true love gave to me.._. _a partridge in a black cage_.”

“Be serious, Potter,” he frowned, although the corners of his mouth curled up further. "It’s pretty archaic but still gets used from time to time. The wording used in the accompanying note determines the nature of the contract you may or may not be getting yourself into, in this case a family alliance or betrothal." Oddly, Malfoy's voice seemed to pitch a little higher on the word 'betrothal'. “Then _your_ counter-gift determines what happens next. Basically, it’s a test, one which he expects you to fail. And so far, you are meeting his expectations quite beautifully. You’ve managed to do one thing right, however.”

“Oh? What’s that?” 

He somehow managed to smirk using just one eyebrow. “You’ve come to me.” And I have no idea why my cheeks chose to heat up at that moment, but they did, and the one pale eyebrow that was mocking me rose even further. 

Anyway, that was that, and Malfoy was all business from then on, fair fucks to him. He rolled up his robe sleeves and got down to strategising straight away. And I poured more tea.

He explained as he went, filling in the gaps in my, let’s be fair, highly sketchy knowledge of archaic pureblood customs. 

"Apparently," he said, as he munched on a Borneo—Aldi's answer to Oreos—“if the gift is refused, or if any gift fails to be received by midnight, then the original request of the first gift is magically fulfilled and any treaty contained within becomes binding, in this case making us ‘kin’. For life." Malfoy visibly quivered. Ugh, yeah, it properly gave me the creeps too. 

After I’d slurped some tea, and just about got my head around all that, I asked the question that had been bugging me the whole time.

“Can’t you just ask your dad to stop?”

Not long after Malfoy stopped laughing, Kreacher brought lunch through. 

* * *

I am stupidly fond of Potter, as you know, but he hasn’t, as the young witches and wizards say, got a Scooby.

“The whole reason for having twelve days of gifting is the _negotiation._ Once entered into, one cannot simply just _stop,_ no matter how much one’s beloved son might wish it. You need to either accept the terms or make a counteroffer. The magic won’t allow any other resolution.”

“Surely I could just say the stupid life debt is cancelled and be done with it?” he whined.

“Unfortunately not.” I put my soup spoon down and dabbed at my mouth with a napkin. “Although I appreciate that you’d offer.”

“Of course I’d offer. We’ve put all that rubbish behind us. It was three years ago, for fuck’s sake.” His voice became impassioned and he knit his brow. “We're friends now, right? We’re good.” 

I’ll admit flushing a little at that. Whatever distaste I had at him referring to me as a pal seemed not to exist when he called me his friend. It was quite baffling. I cleared my throat. Twice. And realised I’d completely forgotten what I was going to say. 

Potter was still ardently staring at me.

“Um, indeed. Friends now," was all I could manage, and I just bloody knew my ears were turning pink. 

Thankfully I composed myself enough to answer his next question, which was why on earth my father would wish us to be married. 

Potter had a point, my father has never been a supporter of The Boy Who Lived, as I learned to my chagrin soon after starting at Hogwarts. He seemed to anger at the very mention of his name, and I soon learned to keep my frustrations about Potter’s broomstick and scar to myself. Anyone who knows anything about Lucius Malfoy, however, knows that he will never ever stop trying to bring glory and power to the Malfoy name, and to extend his tentacles of influence wherever and whenever possible. And of course, what better way to do that than to ally himself with the Saviour, the goldenest of golden boys? And to trap him into it in the guise of repaying a debt? The man was a recidivous schemer and would never change. 

Once finished my leek and potato soup it was time to decide on the next gift: Calling birds. I knew enough to know this was a bastardisation of ‘colley birds’, or blackbirds to give them their modern nomenclature. After making a couple of fire-call enquiries, I sent Potter off to Diagon Alley with strict instructions regarding what to buy. I then set about composing a note to go with it and spent a full three minutes deciding on the appropriate parchment and quill. 

Truthfully, I was finding it hard to focus on anything but the way Potter had been hanging on my every word since I arrived, his face open as a puppydog and twice as fucking adorable. It was embarrassing how much I still craved his attention, and maddening that it was still as addictive as it had always been.

I’d been trying to tamp down my infatuation with all things Potter ever since Eighth Year. After a shaky start to the year, in which, mortifyingly, McGonagall had to get involved, I vowed to keep my head down and get my NEWTs, and then find a little niche in the Wizarding world for myself where the public wouldn’t need to deal with me any more than they needed to. I knew how the wizarding world saw me and my family, and I had no interest in fanning the embers of their distaste and rancor. Some backroom or back office job would do, where I could design and patent charms, or potions, or some such. 

But that all changed when the Careers Witch informed me I’d make an excellent Auror… in front of none other than Finnigan, Weasley and, of course, Potter. Well, there was no way I could back down from _that_ challenge. Especially considering the way they looked at me after that, the way they treated me; with a sort of bemused respect. As an equal. It felt peculiar. Foreign. And, to my shame, I was flattered, and I didn’t want it to stop. No matter how much my brain told me I should stay as far away from the Golden Boy as possible; particularly given the fact that I had an impossible urge on a daily basis to tarnish his shine good and proper. That’s a euphemism for ‘fuck him silly’, in case you hadn’t cottoned on. 

Against all odds, their respect carried over to Auror Training and, unmercifully, so did my desire for Potter. A desire that I soon realised, to my consternation, had a much deeper source than physical attraction. Hidden beneath my yen to get my hands under his robes was a disturbingly solid bedrock of fondness, admiration, and sickeningly, what appeared to be none other than deep and devoted love. It was most tiresome. 

And now my carefully regulated efforts to keep my professional and proper distance were under threat. From my own father.

Fuck.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite my initial reluctance to get Malfoy involved, as I sat in Fortescue’s tucking into a spiced butterbeer ice-cream float—I’d been too keyed up to eat much of my soup at lunch so I was still pretty peckish—I felt as if a weight had been lifted off me. There was something about his take-no-bullshit attitude, and _that sneer_ that would wither the toughest Devil’s Snare, that made my nerves zing and my stomach swoop. But it also gave me confidence. He was a smart fucker. 

Who was I kidding, I thought, Malfoy was a fit-as-fuck fucker too. I tried my best to scrape the last bits of ice-cream from the bottom of the glass with a spoon that was just not quite long enough. Things had gone downhill a fair bit at Fortescue’s since Florean’s disappearance during the war, and, according to Molly (my one true source of all gossip), the new owners weren’t having much luck with the place. Thankfully the butterbeer ice-cream was still to die for, and the spices in it were curiously warming, just the thing on a cold winter’s day—well, at least if you were me and you needed something off the Richter scale in sugar at least once a day. 

I licked the ice-cream off my knuckles, checked Malfoy’s instructions for the third time, and left the shop. 

I was still thinking about Malfoy when I exited Stipple and Daub’s with the ornately framed blackbird painting—which was chirping merrily beneath the brown paper packaging, and drawing curious glances from passers-by—and I reasoned that thinking the bloke was attractive wasn’t the end of the world. I mean, I’d eyes the same as anyone else, so I could see his, er... beauty? It didn’t have to _mean_ anything. 

When I returned to Grimmauld Place, it was to a Malfoy I had never seen before. His robes were hanging casually over the back of his chair, and he was wearing a lime green t-shirt and dark skinny jeans with ripped knees. His hair was all tousled, a quill perched behind one ear and he was humming to himself. Was that _She’ll be Coming ‘Round the Mountain_? I held my breath not wanting to break the magical contentedness of the moment. 

Sure, I’d seen Malfoy in comfortable clothes at our Monday and Wednesday sparring sessions. But even after an intense session, breathing ragged and cheeks blooming, he was always immaculately turned out in regulation Ministry training apparel, and seeing him so casual, so _Muggle_ , took my breath away. Of course, my pesky lungs insisted that I had to breathe eventually, and he turned at the noise of me sucking in air and broke into what can only be described as a relieved smile, and one so natural and open that I felt privileged to be allowed to see it. To get a glimpse of this ‘Saturday Malfoy’. You know what, _not_ Malfoy, I thought to myself, horrified. This... this was _Draco_. 

A smudge of ink adulterated his lower lip—he had a habit of tapping his quill on his lips, even at Hogwarts—and I had the instinctive urge to grasp his chin and thumb it off. 

No, it didn’t _mean_ anything at all. Except that I was fucked.

* * *

Thank fuck he was back. 

He stood there _breathing_ at me for several moments, nostrils flaring like a sexy thoroughbred, cheeks stained fuschia-pink—no doubt it was cold as the Baltic out, December can be a bitch that way, and Potter’s never been known for his heating charms—but it made me realise I’d been at his house almost the entire day. I was highly mortified at overstaying my welcome like that and immediately jumped up to gather up my things that I’d shamelessly strewn about his living room.

The sudden motion made my quill fall from my ear and roll under the table. Knowing the perils of using summoning charms on sharp objects, I crouched down to retrieve it, eventually having to bloody well get on all fours and grab it before it stained the carpeting. I heard a squeak from Potter, and when I emerged he was still gaping and doing the breathing thing. 

“Are you quite alright, Potter?” I asked

“Y-yes. I got the painting.”

“Marvellous. And I’ve finished the letter to go with it. Make sure to send it first thing tomorrow morning. By owl obviously. Muggle post doesn’t operate on a Sunday.”

“H-how do you know that?” 

“Merlin, you’re stuttering, surely you aren’t still cold? This house is perfectly toasty. I can do you a warming charm if you like?” It was always polite to ask before hitting someone with a courtesy charm.

“No, no, I’m not cold,” he laughed.

“Okay, good. And for your information I know a great deal about Muggle… things. Mother and I had our wands taken away for two whole years after the war ended. It was… enlightening.”

“What? I didn’t know that.” Potter screwed up his face. And fuck it if the dolt wasn't utterly gorgeous, even when he was doing what seemed to be his best impression of a dropped pie. 

“Hang on," he eventually said. "You definitely had your wand for eighth year. I gave it back to you at Kings Cross. And I _saw_ you with it during classes.”

“Yes. Yes I did.” I pondered whether to say more. It was humiliating but Salazar I’d always been a sucker for his trusting face. I used to take advantage of it… before... but, gods, now I just wanted to be worthy of it. 

I took a deep breath before continuing. “But what you may not know is that I had to hand it in to McGonagall every evening after classes ended and collect it from her office at a quarter to eight each morning. It was both inconvenient and pretty fucking chastening. But a small price to pay for siding with Voldemort, don’t you think?” 

There.

I’d finally said it out loud. To Potter. 

We’d become pretty good acquaintances over the last three years, but there had always been that unspoken barrier, that veil covering the things that weren’t to be discussed. Well, it would have ruined the camaraderie, wouldn’t it? Easier to gloss over the whole Death Eater thing for the sake of banter and a few pints at the Leaky. 

“But you were acquitted.” Potter looked distraught, bless him. “I was there. At the trial. Fuck, Malfoy, you got off! Isn’t that the whole bloody reason your father sent me the thank you bollocks. I… I don’t understand.”

“They announced it later. No magic to be used for two years, except for educational purposes.”

“That means— Wait. That means you were wandless for the first year of Auror Training too? Don’t tell me you had to hand your wand into Robards every day?”

“Potter!" I smiled condescendingly. "You _can_ do mental arithmetic. Just wait until I tell the Prophet.”

“Shit. Malfoy. Shiiit.” 

“Have I blown your mind?”

“You know what, Malfoy? You sort of have.” 

And then he looked at me. Not just any old look. He sodding well _looked_ at me. And Salazar fucking Slytherin I almost burst into flame. 

* * *

Jesus. What else did I not know about Malfoy?

I needed to get a grip

Firstly, I asked myself, why did it bother me so much? Why did I care so much that I hadn’t noticed he only had his wand for classes? Why did I feel such a bubbling outrage, like I _should have known_ … like _I could have done something_ … like _I could have fixed it_. Ugh, no doubt Hermione would have something pointed to say to me about this—involving the words ‘saving’ and ‘people’.

Secondly, why was I acting like a 3rd year at the Yule ball? Malfoy’d never had this effect on me before, and I saw him almost every day. Staring at his arse and stuttering over words. Merlin, it was mental. Malfoy was sure to notice and be disgusted at me; we were friends, and he’d never shown the slightest bit of interest in me _that_ way. And anyway, _I didn’t fancy him_ … so it was all academic. I was just thrown for a loop by the Muggle clothing. 

And fuck, he did look good in those skinny jeans. The way the denim gripped his thighs and accentuated the swell of his—

 _Focus_. Malfoy was putting his robes back on. Good. That was good. Cover up that jeans-clad arse with some slinky blue material. So slinky it skimmed down his back, glancing over his shifting shoulder blades...

Oh but wait, that meant he was leaving.

“Malfoy, I—”

He turned and raised an eyebrow. “Mmm?”

“Err… when will you be back? You could come for brunch tomorrow?”

“Why ever would I do that? Tomorrow is for sending the gift. There's no need for us to rendezvous until after you’ve received whatever it is my father sends next.”

“Ah. Of course.” My face suddenly felt hot. 

“The letter is over there,” he said, grabbing a pinch of Floo Powder. “You just need to sign and seal it.” 

“Right.”

"Oh, and by the way, that partridge of yours was squawking and chirruping for half the afternoon, and there was no sign of your elf."

"Shit, I forgot to feed him! Poor Colin! And yeah, Kreacher won't go near him, the big sissy, he only pecked him the once."

"Colin? You're telling me you named the partridge Colin."

"Er, yeah, on account of the odd clucking and buzzing noise he makes. Reminds me of a camera flashing and winding on."

"You named the bird after Colin Creevey. Your dead classmate." Malfoy shook his head in obvious disbelief. "Well, that's the most fucking depressing thing I've heard all day, and it's been quite a day." He pulled on his gloves, each finger sliding snugly home in a way that seemed almost indecent. "On that dispiriting note, I'll take my leave. See you in training, Potter. Thank you for lunch.” 

And with that, he was gone. Save for a faint smell of rosehips and burnt Floo powder. 

I picked up the parchment that Malfoy had left out. It was not the usual neat looping script I was used to seeing from him. I expect he had tried to disguise his writing from his father. No point, I thought as I read it, as it sounded exactly like something the posh idiot would say. 

_Dear Mr. Malfoy,_

_May I express my heartfelt thanks for your very thoughtful and generous gift. The hen is simply delightful._

_Whilst I am deeply honoured at the offer of kinship with your son… I do feel that there are other less perduring ways that we can ally with one another. I therefore wish to propose an alternative._

_I would be happy to give an exclusive interview to The Daily Prophet and make notable mention of your release from Azkaban on good behaviour, and to speak of you most favourably. I believe this would line us up in the eyes of the wizarding world as no longer enemies and leave us open to possible advantageous alignments in the future._

_I await your favourable response,_

_Yours,_

_Harry James Potter_

An interview! Fucking what? 

I had to tell myself it was preferable to ending up married—like literally, repeat it over and over—because the thought of speaking to some bloodsucker at the Prophet about _myself_ , never mind glorifying the name of Lucius Malfoy, was enough to start that panicky tightness in my chest, and an overwhelming urge to throw up. 

I steadied my breathing, _slow, slow, slow,_ and the tightness in my chest began to ebb. 

Malfoy was right. It was a smart move. We needed to find something that would satisfy Lucius’s need to gain pre-eminence and something he felt he could exploit to his advantage. Anything to that end was likely to be pretty unpalatable to me, but there appeared to be no other way. I'd just have to stomach it.

Still, I left the parchment unsigned and later, after feeding Colin some mixed seeds, and myself a chicken salad and a thimbleful of headache potion, I went to bed and attempted to read the latest issue of Martin Miggs. (Someone at The Quibbler had revived the comic and had corrected all the Muggle terminology. Personally, I thought it was funnier when they used to get the Muggle stuff all arseways.) However, after reading the same line twelve times— _‘It’s physically impossible for brooms to fly, Mr Merlin, if indeed that is your real name, because they ain’t got propellers, ‘ave they?’_ —I relented and gave in to sleep. 

* * *

Sunday morning came and not long afterwards so did I, a few sad spurts against the mirror in the en suite—disappointing really, given the heated dreams that'd galloped through my head during the night. Following breakfast, I donned my black frock coat and moss-green dragonhide boots, and Flooed, entirely uninvited, to the Manor.

Whipping past the house-elves—specifically a startled Henny and a disgruntled Tansy—I strode straight to the winter garden room where I knew Mother and Father would be taking morning tea. 

Father spotted me through the glass doors before I got there, and I saw him fervently muttering something to Mother. She rose to greet me with wan smile and a dry kiss on each cheek, then made to leave. 

“Mother, aren’t you going to—”

“ _Désolé._ I have something to attend to, _mon trésor_.” Her tone brooked no argument and I was left alone with Father, who had not risen from his chair but squinted up at me, his hair splayed over his shoulders like a newly fallen blanket of snow, it’s purity belying the foul expression on the face it framed.

“I don’t know which glare is more wintery, Draco; the low sun coming over the Buxus hedges or the one on your face. Can I take it you’ve been speaking with a certain Mr Potter?”

"You can. So I shan’t equivocate. What you’ve started here is unspeakably loathsome, even for you. You need to back down from this insane idea of hitching me up with Potter.”

“Out of the question, my dear son. I'm afraid I can’t have you interfering in my plans.” 

“And you don’t think wedding me to someone without so much as a by your leave isn’t interfering in _my_ plans… in my _life_?” 

The man was unbelievable. 

“I really don’t know what the fuss is about. He will make you an excellent match. And haven’t you always been quite dotty about him?”

The man was immoderate.

“No, I have not _always_ been dotty about him, and even if I had that’s hardly the point! The point is _consent.”_ I paced up and down, exasperated. “Besides, since when have you viewed Potter as anything but a highly unpleasant nuisance in all things?”

“Don’t play the fool with me, Draco darling. Pureblood unions require parental consent _only_ as you well know. The consent of the potential fiancés is merely optional." 

The man was unconscionable

“That's ancient and outdated hippogriff shit and you know it.”

“Come, come, Draco. Malfoys have _always_ married for power and advantage. This union makes perfect sense, strategically. Please don't insult me by telling me you feel _sorry_ for the Saviour. He'll do very well out of this arrangement. And let's dispense with the hippogriff shit as you so crudely put it, you can't argue that you wouldn't take great pleasure in bedding him. I've known you all your life, and of this I am quite certain.”

He just did not get it. 

"Whatever my feelings may be about Potter, it does not excuse railroading him into a relationship.”

“May I remind you, dear son, the man owes you a life-debt. Such things have been settled for far greater prices. Let us not forget the case of Hildegarde and Edmund?”

Merlin, how could I forget that shitshow. Poor Hildegarde ended up having to hand over to Edmund her fortune, her left kidney, and her first-born son. 

"Did you ever consider just talking to the bloke? He's a reasonable person." I hated the plaintive note to my voice. And I hated that I asked even though I knew it was no use. 

“Draco, as much as I do laud my own negotiation skills, Harry Potter has always had an uncanny knack for besting me. It needed to be done this way so he couldn't thwart me. The magic of the Twelve Days of Equivocal Reciprocity is gratifyingly robust. Besides,”—he took a sip of tea—“I had a feeling you'd get involved. So, let me put this to bed for you right now. You will _not_ sabotage this. There is _no way_ I will accept anything less than a binding betrothal. You _will_ acquiesce with the outcome and be proud to do so, and then, and _only then_ , will you and your spouse inherit all the Malfoy wealth and estate.” He drained the last of his tea and set the cup onto the saucer with a clink. “I am your father and _you_ are a Malfoy. Am I making myself clear?"

There were so many things I wanted to say. So much Father didn't fucking understand. All I could manage was a terse "Quite," to which he nodded with obvious satisfaction. 

Both of us startled at the spongy pop as Henny Apparated into the room bearing a large parcel. 

"Master, this is come for you by owl."

"Ah. Very good, Henny. Do open it up, then. And be careful!"

He examined the blackbird painting with a small smile on his face, humming to himself and chuckling when it began to sing brightly. 

"It's quite lovely. Narcissa will adore it, I'm sure she'll know the perfect spot in which to hang it." He picked up the letter and broke the seal. As he read it the smile slid off his face and ice glittered in his eyes. 

I waited.

Father placed the letter on his tea plate and was silent for a beat before laughing again, though it sounded a little strained to my ears. 

"Oh, very good. Very good indeed, Potter." He turned to look at me. "I'm pleased he's trying, at least. Much more fun if he fights back, however futile it will be. This really is turning out to be a rather amusing and diverting little—"

"—little game?" I cut in. "Right? That's all this is to you. Playing with people's lives as if we're nothing more than chess pawns."

"On the contrary, Draco. Potter is so much more to us than a pawn, he's the knight that will save this family and set us back on the path to glory and supremacy."

"You're deluded. I can't—" 

“You can and you will. Or your monthly transfer from the family vaults will be cut off, and I will find some other beneficiary for the Malfoy inheritance.”

I found myself unable to catch a breath. Father offered me a courtesy Breathe-easy charm, but I glared at him through my strangled wheezing, turned on my heel and stormed back to the Floo, chest tight and eyes stinging.


	3. Chapter 3

I was watching Malfoy duelling with Susan Bones when the owl came. It was the first time he’d bothered his arse to look at me all day.

He’d been avoiding me all that morning during lectures, choosing to sit diametrically opposite me and refraining from glancing my way even once—despite me staring as hard as I could at the back of his neck. 

Duelling was last class, and there was no way Malfoy could have missed me watching him. Everyone else was milling about, chatting or practicing their moves, while I sat on the sideline watching his elegant feint, parry and riposte, not to mention observing how his soft cotton duelling whites hugged his hips and thighs in all the right places, and his arse, well… if I said two dirigible plums in a handkerchief I think you’d get the idea.

The eagle owl dropped the small parcel and letter into my lap. I whispered into its ear while scratching behind it, and then off it flew to the Ministry owlery for some kibble. The package was smaller than previous ones, which was a relief, in that it was unlikely to be some type of bloody farm animal. I replayed the song in my head trying to think what day we were on. When I looked up, Malfoy had lowered his wand and was standing there just staring at me. About fucking time.

I got up and made my way to the door of the gymnasium. When I reached it, I chanced a look back at Malfoy. The worried glint in his eye somehow caused my head to flick towards the door in a beckoning fashion. I tutted at my lack of bloody restraint, as he grabbed his robes and bag and scurried over.

* * *

I could feel him gawking at me all through lectures. The hairs on my neck tickled in that familiar way. One could, I suppose, assert that the instinct honed during my school years wouldn't have diminished _that_ easily. I had always been acutely aware of his gaze, and that morning it set my insides to dancing, just as it always did, not that anyone could discern that of course, my immaculate composure being another skill I’d honed since childhood. 

You may be wondering why I was avoiding him all day. Truth be told, I didn’t quite know myself. I’d been fazed by the meeting with Father and had spent Sunday evening angsting into my chenin blanc—make that several chenin blancs—about this pixie’s nest of a situation. To think Father would honestly cut off my inheritance _and_ monthly allowance if I spoiled his ridiculous Twelve Days scheme? I don’t live an exorbitant lifestyle—not these days—but I’d struggle to get by on Auror wages, never mind Auror _Trainee_ wages. 

The problem was there was no way of stopping this ancient ritual. It was monstrous that my choice was to agree to a forced union with Potter—which, let’s face it, could never work, and reminded me that I needed to research what would actually happen if Potter resisted the outcome, or abandoned the ‘relationship’ somehow—or be disinherited. The third option was to convince Father of another way to satisfy the life-debt. After yesterday’s meeting that was looking worryingly unlikely. 

We would have to try though. And it was seeing the parcel arrive during my spar with Bones that finally broke me out of my dark reflecting. I realised I was being ridiculous. Of course I’d have to just pull up my big boy bloomers and get on with helping Potter. And _of course_ I was helpless to his casual head flick; he might as well have been sitting on a rock singing me a siren song wearing nothing but seaweed and shells, because the way his dark hair bounced back into place and he jutted out his lower jaw to huff it out of his eyes had me tripping over my plimsolls to go join him. Embarrassing. 

And _of course_ he had to call me out straight away.

“Glad to see you’ve decided I'm worth acknowledging at last,” he said as we entered the changing rooms.

I peeled off my duelling garb and folded it neatly into my valise before answering.

“I _do_ apologise for forgetting to acknowledge and celebrate the Saviour’s attendance at lectures. It had quite slipped my mind that it’s mandatory for students to offer daily congratulations on your very presence.”

“Oh, sod off, Malfoy,” he frowned as he dropped his pants and headed for the shower. Looking back, he added, “We always nod and say hi in the mornings, and today you just blanked me.” 

I watched his arse—glorious, if you’re asking (and FYI my suspicions were confirmed about where his tan lines began and ended)—disappear under the shower spray and then I headed to the adjacent shower cubicle. I took a few calming breaths before turning on the tap, and my airways were rewarded with heavenly lungfuls of Potter’s mint and herb scented steam. I was instantly hard thinking of him soaping himself with it, suds slipping between those perfectly round buttocks. Nothing a full minute of ice-cold water couldn’t quell, though.

When I came out, he was drying himself with a big orange Chudley Cannons towel. He threw me a scowl. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. You said I blanked you.” I grabbed my towel—baby blue Turkish cotton and very much _sans_ Quidditch logo—and began to dry my hair. 

“Oh, for pity’s sake.” He flung his damp towel into his bag without folding it, then covered up his quite lovely prick by pulling on a pair of stripy red underpants. 

“And _I_ didn’t deny it.”

He just looked at me, exasperated. Justifiably so. I was being obtuse. 

I sighed and felt my shoulders slump.

“Sorry.” I closed my eyes. “Sorry, I was just—”

“S’alright.”

I opened my eyes. Immediately his eyes snapped upward to meet mine. His face was a little flushed, and he was fighting a smile. 

“S’alright,” he repeated, “You don’t have to explain. I don’t know why it was an issue. Y-you don’t have to talk to me every single day.” He forced a tight chuckle. “You gonna come over to mine then? I’ll cook dinner and we can check out what your old man sent me.”

“Absolutely… that would be— Thank you. Yes.” 

“Well, get your keks on then. I’m not side-alonging you with your dick hanging out.”

I hurled my towel at the git’s head and savoured his deep laughter as I donned my clothes, all the while exhilarated at the idea that he’d been checking out my cock. Thank Merlin it had gone down to quarter mast and was now merely looking innocently chipper.

* * *

Malfoy opened the package as I gathered some ingredients from the cupboards for a lasagne and salad. His call of “napkin rings!” rudely interrupted my mental replaying of his lean, pale body dripping water and smelling of rosehips. 

“Let’s see then,” I walked over to him, pretty thankful to be fair that my mind’s eye had been forcibly closed before it had a chance to zoom in on any of Malfoy's ‘finer features’. 

“The gold filigree on them is so delicate,” said Malfoy, tracing his fingers over the patterns.

“Well I’m glad you like them. I just can’t _wait_ to have guests over so I can show them off.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You do have a guest over.”

“Good point.” I flung a couple of paper serviettes at Malfoy. “Knock yourself out.”

Malfoy sniffed. “That’s the five gold rings, then. And, as I suspected, he’s snubbed our offer of a favourable interview.”

“ _Our_ offer...” I repeated darkly. “I seem to remember _not_ being consulted about that idea.”

“You either want me to help or you don’t,” he snapped. “Which is it?”

“Okay okay, I want you to help. But it’d be nice to be consulted on what could possibly be a binding agreement that affects my actual life. Otherwise you’re no better than your manipulative father.”

Malfoy looked as if he’d been slapped, and I realised I'd gone too far.

When he put his head in his hands with an anguished whimper, I knew I’d really gone and done it.

“Yorride,” he muffle-talked through his wrists. 

“Eh?” I said.

He looked up and it was all I could do to stop myself from flinging my arms around the git, he looked so distraught. “You’re _right_ , Potter. You’re completely right. I got carried away with trying to get the best out of this process and I ignored the most important thing. If we’re to get this to work, it needs to be something we _all_ consent to. I’m really, really sorry.”

“Apology accepted, mate.” 

Malfoy beamed at that, a bright burst of happiness, and it was so fucking gorgeous that I nearly dropped the tinned tomatoes in shock. 

* * *

I’ll give Potter his dues, he makes a first-rate lasagne. How he managed to make it so toothsome with Tesco Value tinned tomatoes and a bag of ghastly pre-grated cheddar is beyond me. There had to have been powerful charms involved. He _had_ gone and splashed out on a bottle of Tesco Finest Barbera though, the tomfool, and I was astounded that it wasn’t half bad. Ripe and plummy and making me a mite tipsy for a Monday evening.

As we ate, I ran through our options for the following day’s gift. We were onto six geese a-laying and I hate to admit I was a little stumped. I knew the number wasn’t as important as getting the right class of gift, not to mention a suitable thing to suggest as a counter proposal in the next letter. 

“What about a posh egg?” Potter mumbled around a mouthful of salad, “Y’know, one of them, whaddya callit, Fabergé eggs?”

“Potter, that’s a— Well. It’s actually a good idea. Of course, the Fabergé is a hen’s egg, so I’m not sure if… Wait! How about an Ukrainian Pysanky egg?”

"I'm sorry, a piss-hanky whatnow?" He had a dab of bechamel sauce on his upper lip and, gods, I wanted to lick it off.

"A Pysanky egg. They're often made with goose eggs or at least modelled on them. They are considered a magical object _and_ a talisman. Father would certainly appreciate anything that would ward off bad luck or evil."

"I could bloody well do with one of those with the week I've had," Potter groused. His tongue flicked up and vanished the creamy sauce from his lip.

"Quite," I managed. Then: "Plus, they're a damn sight cheaper than Fabergé." 

"Are you concerned about my finances, Malfoy?"

"Not concerned, as such, but I wouldn't want to take advantage of your famed wealth."

"That's a comfort, I suppose. That I don't have to worry about you taking advantage of me.” He drained his glass of wine rather quickly, gave me a funny look, and added, “I _am_ rather vulnerable."

What was he talking about? Vulnerable, my arse. Was he flirting with me? Looking at me through veiled dark eyelashes and with a _smirk_ on his lips… goodness to Merlin. 

I'm not sure you understand. Harry Potter is not—and never has been—a smirker. He laughs, he smiles in that adorably lopsided way, he grins stupidly. _I_ smirk. And sneer. And do a lot of other things that start with S. But Potter does not. Not around me, at least. It was unsettling. And horribly arousing. 

"Hardly," I smouldered. (See? An S word.) "I'm sure you're perfectly capable of looking after your own interests." It came out calm and velvety, but I was entering a state of panic. I had a feeling the conversation was nearing choppy waters and I seemed unable—and a trifle unwilling—to chart a safer course. 

His smirk intensified, the edges of his lips inky with red wine, and it seemed filled with promise. Of what though? I barely dared to hope.

"My interests are… pretty wide-ranging. You’d be surprised how difficult they can be to… contain.” He looked down, rubbed his finger around the rim of his glass, and looked back up at me. So dark were his pupils now, I could barely make out the outline of green around them.

Fuck. That sealed it. He _was_ flirting with me. And my brain couldn’t figure out, after three glasses of wine—not to mention ten long years of pining—whether that was a good thing, or a very, very bad thing. I’d spent so long suppressing any shred of feeling towards him, and now that there was a suggestion, a hint, a soupçon, a mere breath of flirtation, I was quite unable to determine what I should do next. 

I opened my mouth to respond, still not quite knowing what was about to come out of it, but Potter must have caught the hesitation in my expression because he stood up abruptly, chair scraping against the tiles.

“Err, I’ll just clean up then,” he said, taking the empty plates to the sink, squirting in some green goo, and turning on the tap. 

“You have heard of levitation and cleaning spells, Potter? I’m positive Wingardium Leviosa was covered in First Year Charms.”

Whatever spell it was that Potter had just been under had clearly been broken now, and I was almost relieved to be back on familiar territory, though my heart had yet to slow down its frantic drumming against my ribs. 

He turned to me, a raspberry flush on the apples of his cheeks, and did the lopsided smile thing.

Ah, there he was. The Potter I recognised. 

“Oh fuck off, Malfoy,” he laughed.

* * *

After that botched attempt to act all minxy—and fucking hell, why? Why did I have the sudden urge to flirt with Malfoy? Nevermind the fact I’m awful at it and I clearly made him uncomfortable—we finished clearing up the kitchen. Using _spells_. Gotta keep the pureblood happy, right? 

Over a cup of tea and a shared Curly Wurly—it was all I had in—we discussed what I should offer as a counter-proposal. Malfoy said it would need to be something that would increase his father’s public standing as _that_ was currently at rock-bottom (where it bloody deserved to be, in my opinion, but I was clear-headed enough to realise my opinions on that score weren't going to be helpful). I did, however, protest that he should just bloody stop with this shit and get himself a proper job like everyone else. I was expecting Malfoy to go mental at that, but his face just took on a faraway expression for a moment, and then he clapped me on the back, with a “Ha! This is precisely why I keep you around, Potter.” 

I tried to query it, but the back slap had caused me to bite down hard on my piece of Curly Wurly and fused my bloody mouth shut.

“Wurrr mnnn?” was about all I managed.

“Goodness, what on earth is wrong with you?”

I pointed at my mouth. “Tff-uff. Mrff.”

“Are you quite— Wait, did you say ‘toffee mouth’?” When I nodded, he rolled his eyes, “You are such a child. May I offer a courtesy spell?”

I was unaware that a spell even existed to de-toffee a person’s mouth, but I trusted that Malfoy would know. _Trusted_. Yeah, shit. I did trust him, didn’t I? 

I couldn't even remember when that deep-seated mistrust and suspicion had reshaped itself into respect, and appreciation of his sharp mind and sharper tongue, and utter, utter belief that he had _changed_. But it had. He was still a bit of a prick at times, but no more than Ron, or Seamus, or even Ginny. Or me, come to think of it. We all had our moments.

I nodded again and waited for the hawthorn wand to be pointed at me.

“ _Anti Viscoso_ ,” he stated clearly, and the chocolatey toffee melted instantly in my mouth. 

Embarrassingly, I groaned in pleasure as I swallowed the soft caramel. Malfoy looked a bit stunned at that, so I quickly licked my lips and asked, “What did you mean, then? Did you get an idea?”

He cleared his throat, and his eyelashes fluttered as he did. “Yes. Yes, I think so. You said he should get a job, and you’re right. Gainful employment will elevate his worthiness in the eyes of the Wizarding World.”

“Malfoy. There is not the tiniest chance of him going along with a suggestion for him to go out and get a job.”

“Correct. However, if the Chosen One was to secure him a reputable and prestigious position in the Ministry, he’d surely be tempted, _n’est ce pas_?” 

“Oh no. No no no. I’m a trainee Auror! What makes you think I could possibly get Lucius into some high-up position at the Ministry?”

“You are Harry fucking Potter!” he shouted, startling me. “You saved the fucking Wizarding World from the tyrannical reign of a murderous snake-faced Dark wizard. You are beloved by young and old. You are powerful and intimidating as fuck when you're striding about all determined and full of purpose…. Not to mention you’re on first-name terms with the Minister for fucking Magic!” He stopped his rant and quietly added, “You could absolutely do it… is all I'm saying.” 

"Whoa. Okay. Merlin, Malfoy. I— I suppose, if it meant an end to all this bullshit, I could maybe, possibly, just about get over the toe-curling awfulness of using my hero status to swing your dad a job." 

Malfoy was looking fairly sheepish after his outburst. He sucked on his Curly Wurly for a moment, swallowed and said, "Thanks, Potter. Apologies for going off at you."

"It's fine," I said, and I moved a little closer to him on the sofa. "You really think I'm intimidating, huh?"

"Not one bit, Scarface," he pouted. “I was merely referring to your public persona.”

“A likely story,” I countered, and when he rolled his eyes and smiled and me, I went “Grrrr!” for good measure. His small jump of alarm was so bloody satisfying that I couldn't help collapsing into giggles. Which resulted in the return of the pout. Oops.

But then I poured him another tea, he relaxed again, and we continued planning. Malfoy seemed so much more comfortable discussing tactics and was back doing that enthusiastic flappy thing with his arms that made me fear for his cuppa which he’d plonked in a precarious position on the arm of the sofa. By the time he finished his spiel, he had me convinced that securing a role for his dad would be a piece of piss, and thankfully he managed that without a drop of tea spilled. 

We also discussed the Ukrainian egg thingys (apparently there were all sorts, with shedloads of symbolic meanings), as well as the best way to word the letter. It ended up with Draco standing to leave just after 9pm, pulling on his posh black coat and some soft-looking leather gloves, and stating that he had a bit of research to do that evening but that he would pen the letter first thing in the morning before lectures. 

We also agreed to visit Tantalus Antiquities on Diagon during our lunch break to obtain the egg and I suggested we first grab lunch at the greasy spoon caff across the street from it, Hex and Bacon. Surprisingly—albeit with a lip so tightly pursed it went white—Malfoy agreed.

“Just wait until you taste their bacon butties,” I said to him before he Flooed away, and I defied him not to moan in happiness. And if I was more than a little looking forward to hearing that… well, a bloke gets his kicks where he can. 


	4. Chapter 4

As it turned out, the bacon butty was indeed heavenly. The bacon was salty, greasy and hot, and the bread-roll was milk-white, soft as you like, and slathered in butter. I deny moaning (as Potter had hoped), but I fear I did close my eyes and breathe rather heavily through my nose while chewing, and when I opened them it was to Potter, the pestiferous twat, looking unbearably smug. 

Naturally, I’d been hesitant about Hex and Bacon as a lunch venue but accepted the proposal due to my behaviour that evening. I shouldn’t have shouted at him; it was very ungracious of me. A Malfoy gets his point across through reasoned argument and subtle manipulation. Still, the tirade did seem to work, and I was very tentatively hopeful that there was a tiny sliver of a chance that Father would take the bait, and to be honest that was the best I could hope for under the circumstances. 

The restaurant, if one could call it that—what did Potter say, a caff?—was a bustling little place. Glass sugar dispensers and paper napkins in chrome holders adorned laminate covered tables. I couldn't understand the point, unless it was to save on fabric cleaning charms. The menus were handwritten, which I found quite charming, and proudly declared the merits of their ‘All-Day Breakfast.’ Steam rose from behind the counter where large hissing tea urns stood, and a wizard in a striped apron and hairnet was filling metal teapots. He’d brought one over to our table as soon as we sat down, without even asking us what we’d like to drink, but I had to hand it to him, it was a smashing cup of tea, and as good if not better than the Kusmi Earl Grey that Mother always brought me back from Paris, and fuck if it didn’t wash down the bacon roll just perfectly. If the bacon didn’t have me moaning, the tea definitely required me to stifle a very contented sigh.

“Not bad, eh?” Potter asked, wiping HP sauce off his mouth with the back of his hand.

“No, not bad at all,” I said.

“They do homemade cakes too,” he enthused. “They’re _really_ good.” 

“Are they indeed? Perhaps you could tempt me to some cake and an espresso after this.” 

“Umm, I’m not a hundred percent sure they actually serve coffee here. More of a tea place, this.” 

More of a tea place. Why did that not surprise me? Over a second pot of tea and some frankly divine Victoria Sponge I filled Potter in on what I'd found out the night before. 

Well, let me explain. I'd Apparated back to the Manor, straight into my old bedroom. Thankfully the adjustments I’d made to the wards way back during the Christmas holidays of Seventh Year were still in place. It was a survival necessity at the time, being able to get in and out of the house without detection—the place was a pit of vipers—and I don’t think I’d have come out the other end with my sanity had I not discovered the ward-modifying spell. The noseless bastard had a core trace put on me, so he’d have caught up with me fairly sharpish if I’d have gone far or used any magic, but it was enough to be able to slip out to the topiary garden for a quick smoke and a handsy snog with Theo once in a while (he was often at the Manor with his father, being as the man was one of Voldemort’s apparatchiks). We’d emerge from the dank mossy shadows of the hedges, scarlet-lipped, panting and grinning, and Theo would always have some scrap of food or other in his robes to lob at the peacocks as we returned to keep them quiet. 

Anyway, I digress, do forgive me—it’s just that those occasional dalliances with Theo were small flecks of light in extraordinarily dark times, and I’ll always treasure them, despite having never had any real feelings for the boy other than the lustfulness of teenage youth. 

So, as I said to Potter, I made my way into the Manor, undetected, and was able to retrieve several very enlightening books on ancient pureblood rituals and customs. Of particular interest was one called _Lessons in Magical Customs and their Social Usage_ which detailed what would occur if one were to ever renege on the outcome of the Twelve blasted Days of arsing Equivocal Reciprocity. What I learned was this: from the moment a person resists, opposes or abandons the end result, their magic begins to deplete. It ebbs away on a continuous basis until such time as they resume or make good on the contract. Put simply, they'd become a squib. 

Don't get me wrong, I bear no ill will towards squibs. But this was something we couldn't allow to happen, especially not to someone with magic as gorgeously powerful as Potter's. The brawny elegance of his casting is something I could write countless sonnets about. 

The second rather grim side effect was—how to put it delicately—genital wastage. The poor unfortunate would not only suffer sterility, but also a withering of their reproductive organs. 

“Barbaric,” I concluded, and unsurprisingly, Potter agreed.

"That’s fucked,” he said, crossing and uncrossing his legs. “Funnily, I'm rather attached to my magic… _and_ my balls." And I agreed with that, silently of course, already mentally composing the first quatrain of a sonnet to both. 

“Bollocks,” concluded Potter. “Pardon the pun. Just, that is _properly_ annoying.” And he was right.

Because it had always been an option—granted, not an ideal one—just to go through with Father’s proposal and then break it all off at a later date. We’d speculated that even if there was something magical keeping us together, I—or at the very least Granger—would, before long, come up with a way to dissolve the engagement, and we’d be free. Free to lead our lives separately from each other, unfettered by detestable pureblood contracts, and ultimately find happiness with our _real_ true love. 

Well. Potter could. 

I, on the other hand… 

“Listen, no point sitting there sighing about it, Malfoy. We need to focus on getting your dad on board with this Ministry job idea, and forward planning in case he rejects it.”

“Indeed,” I said, abandoning my dreary mulling—not to mention my scrotal poetry—with another loud sigh. 

* * *

I’d never been in Tantalus Antiquities before—no reason to, really, I'm not an antiques kind of guy. It was an odd, odd place, kind of like a cheerful version of Borgin and Burke’s. Chandeliers of varying sizes hung from the ceiling, their candles flickering and dappling the shop in a tremble of light and shade. There were several clocks hanging on one of the walls, similar to the one in the Weasley household, as well as a mirror in a thick tarnished frame that muttered, “Forsooth! Such a slovenly rapscallion,” as I passed by. On the other wall hung a rail of old Moroccan-style flying carpets, some straining to be free and others hanging limply. I spotted an antique chess set laid out on a bureau, which would be perfect for Ron’s Christmas gift. Behind it stood a display of fancy Remembralls, in assorted shimmering colours, and beside that was what looked to be a silver hairpin in a toughened glass case, likely cursed; I could feel in my nerve endings the throb of protective magic surrounding it. 

I turned to see Malfoy examining an ornate violin, and paused for a second seeing his expression, eyes crinkling and the beginnings of a gentle smile. It was the same look he gave that weird glass hen Lucius sent me. Merlin, but Malfoy really did have a soft spot for pretty things. It shouldn’t have made my chest warm and fond, but it did. 

I cleared my throat. "Right, mate. Where are these eggs, then?"

"Just a moment," he breathed. "I've never seen a violin this beautiful. Look at the purfling!"

I peered at the instrument, wondering what in Godric’s name purfling was, and then I saw it—an intricate border of snakes writhing around thorny rose stems. Their sinuous movements and shiny green and black scales were sort of hypnotising. It was pretty cool. 

"It's lovely, Malfoy, but I'm pretty sure we've got more important things to attend to. Unless you think me serenading your dad is the way to go. Bear in mind, I'm not familiar with 15th century music and I've never picked up a violin in my life."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." He gave my shoulder a light shove, though he was still smiling. "I think we can spare one minute to browse around. Mother would so adore this piece." 

I shoved him back. "I see where you get your love of the finer things from." 

His smile widened. "It's true. She and I—"

"Ahh, young love!" interrupted a reedy voice from the corner of the room. 

We both turned to the source of the noise and a short figure half-emerged from the shadows—a goblin. 

"It's so lovely to see," the goblin continued, then paused and frowned. "But you're not bonded yet. What's holding you back? A love this strong would only benefit from being strengthened by matrimony, particularly given your compatible magical cores." 

"Wh-what?" spluttered Malfoy, echoing my inner thoughts. "You're mistaken, Potter and I are not—"

The goblin banged a stick on the ground, startling us both, and walked closer. It was then I realised that the goblin was not a goblin at all, but a short and extremely wizened old witch. A witch sporting a rather daintier version of the mad spinny eye that old Alastair Moody used to wear. 

"The eye never lies," she said, and as if on cue, it darted back and forth between me and Malfoy.

“Jesus,” I said. 

“What happened to Timolus?” asked Malfoy curtly, although I detected a slight tremor in his voice. “Does he not work here anymore?”

“He does but he’s been unwell. I’m his grandmother, Freyja. And I have the gift of sight, so there’s no point pretending there’s nothing between you. It’s as plain as the eye on my face. The sooner you’re bonded the better. Your magical cores are reaching out for each other, begging to be joined. It’s quite something.”

Bloody fucking hell. If I felt awkward about the old crone’s pronouncements it must have been nothing on what Malfoy felt. He was flushing hard, poor git, and his mouth hung open. 

“Well, actually, Mrs... er... Madam Freyja, there _is_ a sort of chance that Malfoy and I will be getting engaged rather soon. So, you needn't worry at all.” I slung an arm around his shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

I chanced a sidelong peek at Malfoy and the astonished and slightly ill look on his face was priceless. I threw him a pointed _play along_ look which I’m not sure he interpreted correctly because he just started coughing like a maniac.

“Wonderful! You’re doing the right thing, boys.” She clapped her hands, bracelets jangling, and a small orange bird flew out of her sleeve, around the room, and alighted on a wooden clock. “Now, what can I help you with?”

That seemed to jump-start Malfoy, and he launched into the requirements we had for the Pysanky egg. As he spoke, I couldn't shake the eerie feeling the old woman’s words had instilled in me. Eerie, and terrifying, and kind of brilliant. I couldn't help but notice Malfoy glancing at me every once in a while, so I plastered on my best _all’s cool, we’re cool_ face, and he threw me back a few rolled eyes and the odd smirk. 

It was all cool. We were cool. (Though I did have to peel off my jumper to avoid being drowned in sweat. It was unusually warm all of a sudden.)

* * *

Salazar, I could have died! Died from the embarrassment. Just my luck there would be some sort of seer/love-empath/magical-core-whisperer running the shop. Fortunately, Potter didn’t seem perturbed by the nosy old hag’s chatter, he likely thought it was pseudo-psychic mumbo jumbo. 

The thing was… she was right. About me, that is, and how fucking besotted I am with the twerp. Sadly, she seemed to be rather confused and think Potter was in love with me too—which would be funny in its ridiculousness, if only it didn’t make my heart lose all its vigour at the very thought of _what if_ and _what will never be._ So, clearly she was an out-and-out charlatan. But it was heartening that her mistaking Potter's minor fascination with me—because, let's face it, I did seem to pique his _interest_ , if last night's wine-induced exchange was anything to go by—as _true love_ would at least discredit her 'reading' of us and throw him off the scent. 

Gods though, Potter was fucking great in there today, diffusing the tension of the situation, and just Gryffindoring all over the place. For some reason I found his brand of insouciant bravado horrifyingly hot and it was all I could do not to sodding well _swoon_. I feared I was falling deeper each day, and I won't fib, despite knowing the perils, I felt powerless to stay away from him. It was like the old bint said, my core reached for him… wanted to be joined to him… in all the ways that matter...

Salazar, sometimes I made myself sick with my mawkishness. I needed to just bloody pull myself together and rally to the cause—tally-ho, stiff upper lip and all that. I picked up one of the books I'd pilfered from the Manor library and traced my fingers down the index, stopping at _Contractually binding customs_. As I riffed to the correct page I thought back to Potter’s face as I thrust a stack of books at him, just before we parted ways outside the Ministry after classes. 

“You need to do your share of the research, too,” I’d said.

“What, read all those? Is that _really_ necessary?” His injured expression had been cute, but it needled me. 

“Are you _really_ asking me that question?" I’d flashed back at him. "We need to find a way to dissolve this infernal contract! This is not some silly game, a lark, a _frivolity_. It’s real! As real as the hope I have that some day you’ll stop asking such ridiculous questions.”

I'd never seen a face drop so quickly. He shrunk the books down with a, "Fair do's, Malfoy, I'll go through the books," and Apparated away before I had a chance to respond. 

Like I said, I needed to pull myself together. Snapping at Potter was diverting, and satisfying in an achingly familiar way, but it wasn't helpful. Nor was thinking about his bold actions or his unfairly distracting arse, that could wait for later in the comfort of my bed with a squirt of raspberry lube to assist proceedings. 

I gently grasped the creamy-white shaft of my quill— _not_ a euphemism, you absolute letch—dipped it into my homemade iron gall ink, and began to take notes.

* * *

Ugh, I thought, as I landed on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place, he thinks he’s all that and a bag of jelly slugs, with his ancient books and his _I know everything_ attitude and his smooth hair. 

I knew I shouldn’t grumble; he was doing all this to help. Just, did he _need_ to be all snippy and eyebrow-y about it? Some days I loved his cutting remarks, they thrilled me with the keenness of a bedsheet ripping, but today he seemed really narked with me. Probably because I joked about us getting engaged at lunchtime in the shop. 

I just needed to stop sulking, pull myself together and get my arse all over these books. So, once inside the house, I did the only sensible, responsible thing: I Flooed over to Ron and Hermione with a six-pack of beer. 

_And_ the books, I’m not completely feckless. 

After a good half hour entertaining the pair of them by bringing them up to speed on the calamity that is my life—a courtesy _Tergo Ledo_ was required to stop poor Ron choking after I filled them in on the ‘possible imminent betrothal’, and a hasty _Kleenexium_ had to be aimed straight at Hermione’s face when she snorted her beer at the mention of the old lady-slash-goblin—and once we’d polished off three each of the frankly terrific enchiladas that Ron had made, we all got stuck into the books. 

I say ‘we all’. What I really mean is Hermione got stuck into the largest heaviest one, scribbling notes with her formidable hippogriff-feather quill, and Ron and I amused ourselves by reading out ridiculous pureblood customs from some of the others. It was all going swimmingly until Ron read one out about how, if a guest at your home audibly broke wind, as the host you were obligated to break wind even louder, to spare their embarrassment. After that—and the possibly ill-advised reconstruction of said scenario on the part of me and Ron—Hermione’s patience ran out, and we were put in separate corners and ordered to study. It was like the bloody week before our OWLs. 

Still, it bore fruit because after only ten minutes Ron leapt up with a great whoop and a shout of “Bloody hell, mate, I think I have something!” Unfortunately, the book fell to the ground and he spent a good minute finding his page again. I winced when I saw the beer bottle ring left on the page when he finally located it—Malfoy would be outraged at the treatment of his family’s ancient books—but it was nothing compared to the way I balked when Ron read out the relevant passage. 

“Should the recipient fulfil in totality the gifter’s initial proposition, antecedent to the completion of the Twelve Days custom, of the recipient's own free will and with honourable intent, then the Equivocal Reciprocity cycle need no longer continue, and the process and all obligations to the gifter shall cease forthwith.” Ron looked up at Hermione and me. “So, you just have to give old Papa Malfoy what he wants, and the gift-giving guff will stop.” 

Oddly, Ron looked _pleased_ with himself.

“Give him what he wants? That’s no solution at all!” I said. “That would mean getting engaged to Malfoy! Which is exactly what we’re trying to _avoid_.”

Hermione placed a hand on my arm. “Harry, don’t you see? All obligations to Lucius would cease. The magical contract would dissolve.”

“Yes, but I’d be committing to marry Malfoy. I don’t see—”

Ron broke in, “But, think about it, mate. If you broke up… soon after the engagement… what would happen?” 

“Um.” I hesitated. “Um, nothing I guess?”

Hermione nodded. “Precisely. There would be no magical core depletion. No repercussions! Well, save for a bit of a publicity scandal, and a rather large amount of annoyance on your ex-father-in-law-to-be’s part. But surely that’s worth it.”

"Better than having your plums shrivel up, I'd say."

I snorted. “You've got a very valid point there, Ron. Glad I can count on you to be on the _ball._ ” 

“Well, I do pride myself on getting right to the _nuts_ and bolts of the matter.”

“Boys! Focus!”

“No need to get _testy_ , ‘Mione,” said Ron, and we both collapsed into giggles. Even Hermione snickered at that.

Eventually I composed myself. "Ahem, yeah. That could totally work. Thanks Ron, great work! Malfoy would need to go along with it though… he’ll be revolted by the idea. I’m actually looking forward to telling him,” I laughed. “He’ll be proper bent out of shape.”

“Are you and Malfoy not getting along?” Hermione frowned. “I thought you’d put aside that silliness from school.” 

“Oh no, we’re getting on fine. Just y’know, we like to, er… razz each other a bit. It’s our thing.”

“You and Malfoy have a thing?” Ron smirked. “Like a _thing_ thing?” 

“Har har,” I replied, though I thought, _Did we? Could we?_

The idea of Malfoy and I having a _thing_ thing was absurd. Absurd but, really, _not_ that absurd. 

"It's not that absurd an idea, Harry," said Hermione. Fuck, did she just sneak a Legilimens at me?

To be fair, she wouldn't have needed to. The girl knows me better than I know myself most of the time. Her and Ron have known I was bisexual for ages. In fact, they were the first people I told after my Big Gay Awakening—which happened to occur during my and Ginny's attempt to rekindle our old flame a couple of months after the war. 

We'd met Seamus and Luna in Hogsmeade for a double date, but when I found myself, after several firewhiskies, reverently tracing the freckles on Seamus's cheek rather than Ginny's, I knew I'd unearthed _something_ —certainly if the halfie in my jeans had anything to say about it. That _something_ became a lot clearer after Seamus treated me to what he referred to as ‘ _one of me famous hand shandies’_ in the men's room. There's something about grunting out an orgasm into a man's fist while sucking on his stubbled neck that'll give a guy that level of clarity. I didn't feel overly bad about cheating on my date though, given the way she was happily surrendering to Luna's mouth on her bare shoulder as they queued at the bar. Turns out we’re all a bit gay, really. 

After the double date debacle, Ginny and I chummily agreed to ‘explore other avenues’ and explore we did. Merlin. Mer- _lin._ But those are stories for another day. 

Anyway, like I said, Ron and Hermione have pretty much known as long as I have: I love men. As much as I love women. It’d never been a big deal for them. Although they did love to point out that the men I 'love' tended to be of a certain build and colouring. No surprise to anyone then that Hermione constantly dropped hints about Malfoy and me. My last two not-nearly-boyfriends—couldn’t seem to get past the third date with any of them—were slim and blond. Not nearly as prickly and gittish as Malfoy, though, and, if I’m honest, not nearly as fun. 

Crikey, perhaps Hermione had a point. 

A cushion hit me in the side of the head. “Harry, you’re daydreaming again,” called Ron.

"Am not!" I laughed and chucked the floral print cushion back at him. "Anyway, can't expect a bloke not to take a minute to digest the fact that he might very soon have to publicly announce his engagement… to _Malfoy_." 

Ron shrugged. "Yeah, but it's fake, so…" 

"Yes, _we_ know that. But what about everyone else? Molly and Arthur... Neville, Ginny, Luna, Seamus… They're gonna bombard us with questions. And, fuck, the Prophet will be all over us. Not to mention _Witch fucking Weekly_."

"It doesn't say here that you have to announce it publicly," Hermione said, looking up from the book in question, "just that you need to fulfil whatever was requested of you via the thingum-a-bob."

Ron and I spoke at the same time: "The _thingum-a-bob_?" Hermione was _never_ anything but precise and detailed, and _never_ said things like 'whatsit', or 'whatchamacallit', and certainly _not_ 'thingum-a-bob'.

"I'm afraid to say _even I_ am fed up of saying 'The Twelve Days of Equivocal Reciprocity', and I only heard it for the first time this evening."

“Hear, hear,” I cheered. “Well, hopefully we won’t have to say it ever again if this fake engagement thing works.”

“Absolutely,” said Ron. “It’ll even be worth the kiss to seal the betrothal.”

“Err, beg pardon?” 

Ron explained the pureblood tradition for proposals of marriage and acceptance, rhyming off some twee little jingle that went something like ‘ _Forged with a promise and sealed with a kiss, your bond will be honest, your lives will be bliss’_. Hermione snorted inelegantly at that, so Ron bowed deeply and pressed a kiss to the top of her hand, and she hooted and kicked her legs at him. Dorks.

A kiss. I could definitely manage a kiss. Just skin against skin at the end of the day, wasn’t it? Like two friends holding hands. 

Except, even _that_ was pretty intimate. It would be for anyone, though, right? When they weren’t even dating. When a person was beginning to think they might not mind at _all_ the simple closeness of holding hands, and _actually_ , maybe, even kissing. When they wished all of these weird _feelings_ that were tentatively budding in their chest—because, heavens to Godric, there came a time when _even I_ had to face the fact that I did fancy the pants off the pointy prat—were happening under slightly more normal circumstances. 

I just hoped Malfoy would be okay with it.


	5. Chapter 5

So, dear friends, here we finally were. At the most bizarre day of my life. 

So far. (There were plenty more bonkers things to come, never fear.)

But at _that point_ , on _that day_ , it was the most fucking insane thing I'd ever heard. 

Potter. Was. Asking. Me _(me, Draco Malfoy, ex-nemesis-and-Death-Eater-and-all-round-bit-of-a-little-shit)_. To. Marry. Him _(him, Harry Potter, saviour of wizarding-kind, national treasure, twice survivor of the Killing Curse, and the most famous wizard there ever was—well, in the top five, at least)._

So, you can understand my astonishment.

He cornered me that morning after Memory Modifications 1.01 and insisted we went for a cuppa in _Rennervate!_ , the level 2 coffee dock manned by Bartholomew, the consistently twinkly-eyed barista. Whether it was the caffeine or the garish eye make-up that made his eyes glimmer so, I couldn’t always tell, but today Bartholomew was looking particularly festive, and his _clinquant_ eyeshadow sat atop his eyes like gaudy tinsel on a Muggle’s Christmas mantelpiece.

When Potter ordered two double shot americanos I knew something serious was up. Potter was a cappuccino man, always had been; the more foam the better (I’m not even convinced it wasn’t foam all the way down at times). Even Bartholomew looked surprised, and his eye-tinsel twitched quite a bit as he tamped down the grinds. 

As it was, it wasn’t the least romantic proposal on record—that honour surely goes to Gareth in Magical Trading Standards who popped the question to Shelley from the Centaur Office by proffering her a fried onion ring in the canteen queue; poor girl had to be treated with a swift Refrigo for her blistered fingers—but that was entirely down to the dolt’s nervous puppy-crup eyes (if crups had lustrous shamrock-green eyes, which of course they don’t) which, pathetically, never failed to stir my heart. Still, call me sentimental, but I’d rather be proposed to with something a little less wretched than “Right Malfoy, don’t go berserk, but I’m gonna ask you to marry me.”

Despite the oaf’s bounderish approach, my heart stopped dead in my chest for several moments before sputtering back to life. “Are you raving mad?” I loud-whispered. “We’re not even… you know... _boyfriends_.” 

Salazar, why did my face choose that moment to bloom with heat? 

“Blame Ron,” he said, and he had the nerve to laugh, although I hadn’t missed his own blush spreading across his cheekbones.

“What’s Ronald Weasley got to do with it?” I asked. Weasley and I were on good terms, but he never struck me as the matchmaking type. That was generally Finnigan’s domain. “Is this a prank?”

“No, no, he figured it out, reading one of your old books. We need to get engaged for real, and then the Twelve Days nonsense will stop.”

Ah. Fuck. Okay. _Not_ a real proposal, then. Disappointment and chagrin burned in my gut, sour and sharp. 

“So… so… I thought— Didn’t you say— You can’t possibly—” _Merlin’s balls! Use your words, Draco._ I paused, forcing my thoughts to stop whirling around and stay in one spot. “It’s just a little out of the blue. So, to be clear, you don’t actually _want_ this? To get engaged?” My heart hammered. “To me?”

“Er, well. It’s not that I don’t _want—_ ” He scrubbed a hand through his dark shaggy mane, a gesture I knew well: he was uneasy. “Well, it _would_ be a bit, er, sudden, seeing as we’re not _actually—_ ” He made a back and forth motion between us with his arm, slopping coffee around. “The idea would be that we could break off the engagement after we knew the magical contract was no longer in operation, with no adverse consequences.” 

“I see.” I heaved a breath and pushed my inconvenient and evidently _pointless_ feelings down as far as they could go. “Alright. I can see how that could indeed negate the requirement for the ritual to continue and leave us free to terminate the… the arrangement. Just... it’s a little extreme, isn’t it?” 

"It's a lot extreme, dude." 

_Dude_? Of all the proletarian— Ugh, never mind, he was offering me his lopsided smile, which might as well have been a Jelly-Legs Jinx for how it made me weak from the knees down. 

"But," he went on, "it might be our best option if your father rejects the counter proposal I sent yesterday." 

"Indeed, I can... appreciate that. Tell me, what exactly did the book say about how this… ah, loophole works?"

"Oh, actually, I have it here." He retrieved a tiny book from his robes and cast an Unshrinking Charm.

As I read the correct section—very _conveniently_ highlighted by a sodding beer stain, but I held my tongue on that (choose your battles, et cetera)—I soon discovered a possible issue.

"Hmm, there may be a bit of a Doxy in the drapes here, Potter. It says the matter must be carried out with 'honourable intent', and I'm not convinced our sham of a betrothal will pass muster." If I put a little venom into the word 'sham' it was entirely unintentional. 

"How in Hades will it know? Surely—"

"Pureblood magic _knows_ , Potter." 

"It can't possibly—"

"It _knows_."

"Merlin. Okay. So, what are you saying? We can't get engaged?" 

" _Of course_ we can get engaged. There's nothing stopping us… that is, if you overlook the small matter of what each of us actually wants and desires. The danger would arise once we terminated the engagement. If the magic were to detect that our promise to one another lacked the proper honour and integrity, well, you know what would happen. The steady, gradual atrophy of your magical and your, ah, procreative abilities. It's not a risk I'm willing to take."

"Surely the risk is _mine_ to take. Why do you even care?” he huffed. “Either way you'll be free of me and this whole thing." 

“Like it or not, Potter, you and I are in this together. My father saw to that. And of course I care. What little you must think of me, to think that I would happily stand by while a…”— _go on, say it_ —"...a friend was in danger of having their magic stripped away.” 

“It’s not that. I know you wouldn't do that.” He ran his forefinger through a scattering of spilled sugar on the table. “Ugh. I’m just frustrated. I really thought we were on to something.”

“It _is_ disappointing. But it is what it is, and we must look forward not back.” _Always look forward and not back, mon trésor._ Mother’s words, and they’d stood me in good stead over the last three years, helped me to endure all the small slurs, ignominies and setbacks that befell me after the trials, to focus my energies instead on reconstructing and renovating my psyche, at the same time as I was assisting in the reconstruction of Hogwarts castle. It was a daily struggle, but the mantra helped. 

“Yeah,” said Potter. “Anyway, it’s almost ten o’clock and we really need to be getting to Stealth and Tracking. Auror Delaney will have our guts for garters if we’re late.”

“Indeed she will,” I agreed. I drained the last mouthful of my coffee, which had by then grown exceedingly tepid and bitter. It quite described my mood, I thought.

* * *

The interdepartmental memo tapped me on the side of the head, disturbing my attempts to follow Auror Cargill’s lecture about illegal potions testing. It was always kind of difficult to maintain focus when I knew I could just charm a copy of Malfoy’s notes later; they were always neat and colour-coded, and he somehow transformed Cargill’s impenetrable droning into something clear and easy to understand. 

The memo informed me there was a fragile package awaiting me at the Owlery near my house, so after classes I collared Malfoy, and we headed there to collect it, stopping in at the The Angel curry house next door to order some takeaway, which we picked up on the way home, along with a bag of mixed seeds (for Colin) and six-pack of bottled beer (for us) from the Tesco Express on Pentonville Road.

“It’s a plate,” I said, opening the package, as Malfoy unwrapped the takeaway cartons on the kitchen counter. 

Though the picture on the plate of swans swimming about on a lake was _nice_ , I was rather unimpressed by it. I passed it to Malfoy for a look, and he examined the back and then the front, muttering to himself and looking puzzled. 

I stared at him for several seconds, and when he didn’t stop his muttering I asked, “Are you _counting_ the swans?”

“Yes, there should be seven, but I only count six. Father wouldn’t buy a fake, so I’m a little confused about the item’s provenance.”

“Give it here.” I stared at the picture for a minute and then spotted a flicker of a white tail amongst the rushes at the side of the picture. “Gotcha! There’s a shy one in the long grasses. Do you reckon painted swans have all different personalities? Shy ones and cocky ones and common-sense ones that roll their eyes at the others? Can swans even roll their eyes?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Potter,” he said, although I could swear that one of the swans winked at me. 

“I suppose it’s nice enough,” I said. 

“Nice enough?” Malfoy looked offended. I couldn’t think why. It’s not like the gift was from him. If it was, I’d have been… well I’d have been quite chuffed that he’d bought me a gift, and I wouldn’t really have cared what it was. As it was, it was from Lucius Malfoy, so I didn’t give the tiniest shit. 

“Well, for one thing,” I said, laying it on the table, “it won’t really go with the rest of my tableware. For another, it’s gonna be pretty distracting trying to eat my curry off it with those swans swimming back and forth. Enough to make a bloke seasick.”

Malfoy goggled at me. “I don’t even know where to begin with all of that.” He made an exasperated gesture with his hands. “This plate is a rare priceless antique dating back to 1685, and is probably worth more than this house, and _you’re_ worried about whether it’ll _go_ with your vile Quidditch-themed crockery. It is for display _only_ —”

“Oi! I had to eat a lot of kids’ cereal to get the bowls and plates for all the different teams.”

“—and you are _certainly_ not going to befoul it with your lamb vindaloo and pilau rice.”

“And my garlic naan,” I said, straight-faced, and Malfoy looked at me wide-eyed, like _I_ was the madman here. 

“Yes, _of course_ , your garlic naan, because _that_ is the nub of the matter.” He had two soft spots of colour high up on his cheeks, and he looked so furious I had to fight hard not to laugh out loud. 

“Alright, alright, don’t get your wand in a knot, I won’t eat my curry off the precious plate if it’s going to make you all cross and squeaky.” He was so easy to wind up. It made me grin stupidly as I put two of my _vile_ plates out for us (Puddlemere for me and Wimbourne Wasps for him), and when I looked back at him I realised I’d been caught smiling and was relieved to see he had a warm smile on his face too. 

“You’re a git, Potter,” he said, and his eyes crinkled as his lips tugged up further. He sat down and began to cut his naan bread into small even pieces. No wanton bread-tearing for Little Lord Malfoy, I thought, making myself snigger softly and earning me a suspicious glance from the supercilious Slytherin. 

“Right pain in the arse about that letter, though,” I said, tucking into my vindaloo. Malfoy had said his father didn’t like hard work and I could certainly believe that after the letter I’d just read. Seemed the man was so against working he probably wouldn't even take a blow job. Ugh, Merlin’s pants, why did I have to give myself that image?

“Quite. I don’t understand why he can’t see how beneficial a high-ranking Ministry role would be for him.” He stopped to take a gulp of beer. “Merlin, Potter, this Madras is spicy.”

“Tasty though, eh?” I said, and Malfoy nodded. “And yeah, back to bloody square one. What the hell are we going to offer next?”

He dipped a shard of poppadom into the mango chutney. “Perhaps I should speak to Father again. Try to convince him of the benefits,” he said, before taking a crunching bite.

“Again? So you’ve already spoken to him since this rigmarole started? What did he say?”

“Um… well, it was completely futile to be honest. I tried to reason with him, but he’s so bloody-minded. I ended up storming out.”

“Ah shit, Malfoy, I don’t want you falling out with your family over this.” 

Malfoy grew pale all of a sudden; his cheeks had gone quite rosy from the heat of the Indian spices, so the contrast was pretty noticeable.

“Are you okay?” I asked. 

“Yes, fine, thank you,” he said, and although it was subtle, I could see that his whole body had stiffened. “Just, my father is rather stubborn. He’s convinced that you and I would be a good match.” 

Lucius Malfoy shipped us? Bloody Nora. “Where would he have got that idea?” 

Malfoy looked down at his plate and began pushing at a piece of chicken with his fork. “Well, it’s a little embarrassing,”—he gave a rigid chuckle—“but I used to talk about you a bit… a lot, while we were at school. Mostly complaining, of course, and… well, Father’s got it into his head that I had some sort of obsession with you.” He looked up at me then, a tight smile on his face. A false smile—I’ve learned _something_ about body language after two years of Auror training. “Ridiculous, eh?”

The world seemed to list ever-so-slightly as something tugged at my memory: Ron and Hermione _insisting_ I was obsessed with Malfoy, while I fiercely denied it… yet, thinking back, I couldn’t seem to stomach doing anything that year except looking for him, looking for him, watching him, looking… always looking.

I met Malfoy’s slate grey gaze and swallowed. “I— I think, maybe, I might have been a little, um, fixated on you at times too.” _Obsessed_ was too strong a word, surely. “You may not know this, but I followed you around a fair bit in sixth year. Thought you were up to something. I was right… obviously… but, looking back, it was a bit… obsessive. I suppose.” Okay, on reflection, maybe ‘obsessed’ was the right word after all. Huh.

Malfoy blinked at me several times before responding. “I knew.” He took another sip of beer. “Knew that you were watching me, at least. Monitoring my… behaviour. I could sort of… sense it, when you were watching me. I didn’t realise it was out-and-out surveillance, mind you. That _is_ kind of weird.” He swiped his last piece of chicken through the curry sauce on his plate and popped it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I'll admit to being a little _focused_ on you at times, probably disproportionately so, if I had to look closely at it. I suppose one could say we’ve always been wary of each other. Always _aware_ of the other. Would you agree?”

“If you’d asked me that this time last week, I’d have probably said no. But now— I don’t know, I think you’re probably right. I think I’m realising a number of things about myself this week. I think… shit, I think I’m thinking too much, and babbling too much, and I think I should just drink my beer.” I lifted the bottle to my lips and realised it was empty. How did it get empty so quick?

Malfoy wandlessly summoned another bottle for me, catching it in a smooth motion and then, with a slight nod of his head, the cap flipped off and landed on the table, rolling around in a tight circle and eventually pinging to a stop. The sight sent a little thrill zipping through my stomach... and lower. 

He held up the open bottle and tilted his head at me questioningly. Wandlessly, I summoned it from his hand to my own, and his lips quirked up in approval, eyes narrowing. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but the atmosphere in the room seemed to have changed, grown thicker, and I became aware of my pulse, my blood heavy and viscous, thudding through the veins in my chest, my neck, my shoulders, my temples.

I took a swig of beer, more for a distraction, something to do with my hands, than actually feeling thirsty any longer. Too quick though, I realised, as beer sloshed out of the full bottle and down my chin and chest. I set the bottle on the table and stood to get a paper towel—or my wand, whichever was closer—just as Malfoy was standing and stepping towards me, a blistering look in his eyes. 

He was close now. Close enough to smell—madras spices, the lemon hand soap from the downstairs loo, that now-familiar woodsy herbaceous rosehip smell. He reached a hand to my face and that electric thrill I’d felt earlier zinged up from my groin to my face at the points where our skin met, and _surely_ he must have felt it too, the thrum of magic, the insistent pulse of my blood through my body, and all I could focus on was his mouth, that clever, acerbic mouth, and how soft and inviting it looked. 

My muddled thoughts from before unclouded themselves and I saw what was in front of me, saw what I wanted. I reached a hand to his hip, the solid feel of his body crystallising my intent, as my fingers slipped into the side pocket of his robes—the ones I liked with the tiny fussy buttons all the way up to his throat—and I pulled. Pulled him towards me. Flush against me.

When I placed my other hand on his face and kissed him strong and sure—and _fuck_ was I sure—he whimpered, mewled even, and then… and then squirmed and pushed me off him.

“Potter! What on earth d’you think you’re doing?!”


	6. Chapter 6

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck. 

Oh gods. Oh gods. 

“Potter! What on earth d’you think you’re doing?!” I’d blurted, shoving him roughly. 

Too roughly. Within a split-second, regret seared through me and I wanted to grasp his shirt and pull him back to me because _those lips._ Salazar, those lips on mine. Savage and brutish and fucking incredible.

I’d panicked. Potter _kissed_ me. I’d been dreaming of it for years, pining into my pillow, imagining every detail of every millisecond of how our first kiss might go. And it happened. 

It happened, and I fucking panicked. 

Potter _kissed_ me and I pushed him away. 

Oh gods.

“Fuck. Sorry Malfoy,” Potter babbled, his face pained. “Fuck! _Fuck!_ I’m so sorry. I... I thought— You were touching my face! Why—”

“I was just trying to clean the beer off your chin! You spilled beer! Down your chin! I was— I didn’t know you were going to...”

Potter closed his eyes and groaned. “Ohhh Merlin. That’s incredibly embarrassing.”

Gently as I could, I asked, “Why did you kiss me?” I bit my lip and waited, the seconds before he answered stretching out like a rubber band, the tension making the air desperately thin, ready to snap at the merest careless word or look.

“Well...” said Potter, opening his eyes again and blinking. “I suppose because I wanted to.” It came out almost like a question, but the meaning was clear, and it hit me like a stampede of erumpents. He wanted to. _He wanted to._

“I see.” I swallowed and steeled myself—inside of course I was screaming like a schoolgirl at a Weird Sister concert; thank Circe for my ability to keep my composure. “And do you _still_ want to? Do you think it’s... something that you want to… that you’d like to repeat?” 

“Shit. No, I _promise_ , Malfoy. I won’t. You don’t need to worry about that. Honestly. I’m _so_ sorry.”

So. Potter regretted it. I knew it was too good to be true. Seemingly I just couldn’t stop my idiot brain from leaping straight to _hope_ , from reading too much into Potter’s little caprices. First, with the proposal, now with this bizarre kiss-attack. He’s an impulsive lummox, I’ve always known that. 

“Oh,” was all I could manage to say, fighting to mask the disappointment souring my stomach. I followed it up a moment later with “Alright, then. Good.” 

I had to look away then; I couldn’t stand it. I couldn't bear another second looking into those passionate applegreen eyes. Eyes I knew so well, I loved so well, so hopelessly. And that was just it. It _was_ hopeless. When would I ever, ever learn?

I closed my eyes and I could still feel the hard push of Potter’s mouth against mine. The gentle flutter of breath from his nose against my cheek. The smell of cardamom and cloves and something else clean and wintery. The insistent press of his palm against my hip, hot and possessive. I wanted to brand it all, every detail, into my memory, and I squeezed my eyes shut tighter to stop the traitorous fucking tears that I could feel threatening. Because it was too painful. 

I just needed to accept it. 

It was all I’d ever have of him. But that was okay. That one torrid moment was enough… would have to be enough.

“Err. You alright, mate?” I opened my eyes to a worried Potter. I suppose I did look a sight, standing in his kitchen eyes closed and fists clenched. “I didn’t think I was _that_ bad a snogger.”

I huffed a laugh. Typical Potter, lightening the mood. Salazar, I loved him fiercely.

“Yes. Yes, I’m alright, I mean. Not yes, you’re a bad kisser. You appear to be more than proficient.” The boyishness of his instant blush and shy smile sealed my fate—doomed to languish in a lovelorn abyss for eternity. Gods, I was dramatic sometimes. I dragged myself out my torpor. “Right. I think we need to discuss tomorrow’s gift.”

“You’re right. We should crack on.” He rolled his shoulders and stretched out his arms in a rather distracting fashion. “Merlin, it’s never-bloody-ending, this.” He rolled his eyes dispiritedly, though the endearing blush still lingered.

“It really is,” I agreed. “I’m beginning to feel like Sisyphus.”

“What, the STI?”

I snorted. “ _Yes_ , Potter,” I replied, injecting each word with as much sarcasm as I could. “I feel like a sexually transmitted infection.”

“Well, I can’t help you there. I’m all clean in that respect. Was recently tested.”

“Salazar’s grace, Potter, you pillock. I’m talking about the ancient Greek king who was condemned to repeat the same mindless and ineffectual task over and over. Rolling a great big rock up the same hill for all eternity, I believe.”

“Right. Well, that does make more sense.” He scrubbed at his neck, and then grinned. “Did seem odd you’d be looking for a shag after what just happened.”

“Indeed.” I said, though he couldn't be more wrong if he tried. 

I levitated the plates and cutlery to the sink and cast a washing-up charm. Potter cleared away the various pots and tubs that had held the condiments and gave the table a wipe the Muggle way using liquid from a sprayable flask. It smelled rather nice. They should develop a Scourgify with a citrusy smell, I mused. 

“Maids-a-milking, then,” Potter said, and he took a swallow of beer. “Any ideas?” I sat down adjacent to him and was about to answer when, to my horror, he added, “How about a titty mag?”

“I’m sorry?” I choked, and it was all I could do to prevent my own chin being covered in beer.

“Some of those witches in Ron’s _Mammary Charms_ magazines look like they’re bursting full of milk, and attempting to err, express it. Maybe that’s why people call boobs 'jugs', who knows?”

“Potter! I’m going to overlook your monumental coarseness for now, and just categorically confirm one thing: we will _not_ be sending pornographic material of any description to my father. Besides,” I added, “whilst I do not wish to cast aspersions on their characters, I rather doubt said ladies could be technically referred to as ‘maids’.” 

“Yeah, I had a feeling you wouldn’t go for that suggestion,” he laughed.

“ _Whatever_ gave you that idea?”—and now I was laughing too. 

And it felt good—a hollow sort of good mind you, but good—to laugh with Potter. To be silly with him. To be part of his circle of friends. It hurt. But it was enough.

* * *

After that colossal fuck-up—and really, I’d trumped myself there; I’d thought the flirting the other night was bad, but _nope_ , I had worse up my sleeve, apparently—I was just lucky he was still talking to me, never mind laughing at my cackhanded attempts at humour. 

What a fucking numpty though, throwing myself at him like that. I still felt hot with shame, thinking back on it—shame for forcing myself on him, shame for how fucking much I _liked_ it, and shame that the very memory of his lush satiny mouth was enough to send the blood thundering to my cock, even hours later. 

He was pretty good about it, all credit to him. Still stayed the evening to help. Even Flooed his mate Theo, who works in an Auction house in Knightsbridge—you remember him from Hogwarts, mousey sort of bloke, decent enough, and _more_ than happy to bend over backwards for Malfoy it would seem—and managed to source some poncy butter dish: silver, etched with cows and milkmaids, and with a fancy butter knife, Victorian apparently.

And the letter, well, it’ll come as no surprise to anyone that the letter was a work of genius. He’d prattled on for a bit about something called _noblesse oblige_ , which, if I remember right, was something about how privileged and wealthy purebloods are morally obliged to use their position to help the less fortunate. So, he wrote some flowery stuff about _duty_ and _social responsibility_ and _honour_ , and offered that I would gladly set up a charity in the names of Malfoy and Potter, and emphasised how much _good_ we would do and how much standing it would bring him. 

Personally, I was all for it. Slightly dubious about whether Lucius would be too. Well, make that very dubious. He wasn’t really known for being magnanimous to those he deemed beneath him. Exhibit A: One extraordinarily brave and big-hearted house-elf who contributed to the defeat of Voldemort by saving my life and that of my friends. Fuck, but the thought of that courageous free elf still hurt.

All in all, the evening _could_ have gone worse, I suppose. Well, at least that’s what I was thinking to myself not two minutes before it turned into the best and most brilliant evening, like, ever.

Malfoy had been stretched out languorously on the sofa at that point, contented with himself having penned the letter with the aforementioned offer, obligatory ink stain on his lower lip. I’d been keeping my distance obviously, but fuck, it was torture looking at him, laid out like that, raffish and lithe and just… unconcerned. 

And the ink on his lip. I couldn’t seem to look away. Dark blue smudged against earthy pink, and it was mesmerising. I knew now the taste and the pliant succulence of those lips, and I stared, helplessly spellbound.

“Pottah,” he’d drawled, speech a little slurred from the beers, and possibly also from the two firewhiskies we'd had after that. "You're gaping at me. What izzit?" 

The alcohol had had an effect on me too I reckon, because I stood up and walked across to him as if on puppet strings and pressed my thumb to his lip. “You’ve got ink. Right here. It was distracting me. _Is_ distracting me. It’s... distracting.” 

His mouth fell open a fraction as he huffed a little laugh, and I removed my thumb. “Oh. I see,” he said. “Don’ wan’ you to be distracted. Would you mind… getting it for me?” And then he pushed his bottom lip out like a petulant child and went slightly cross-eyed trying to see it.

“Not at all,” I mumbled, the words like clay in my mouth. I licked my thumb and slid it slowly along the pad of his bottom lip, smearing the ink there and making his whole lip a heather purple, as if I’d marked him... bruised him. His mouth opened a little more and the urge to push my thumb in and press down on his tongue was overwhelming. But I lifted my thumb away.

“Is it gone?” he asked, eyes fixed on mine. 

“No, it’s not quite— there’s still some—” I could barely speak for the ache of arousal throbbing through me. “Shall I...?”

“Yeah. Yes.” He said, voice throaty, and my gaze flicked to the silk-covered buttons at his neck, all lined up in a pretty row. 

I knelt on the sofa then to get a better angle, and my knee ended up between his knees. He widened his legs a little to give me room, and just that gesture of accession had me hardening in my pants. This is _so_ not appropriate, a tiny voice was trying to tell me, he’s drunk—but I found I could ignore it quite easily, particularly when I focused back on Malfoy’s parted lips. 

I rubbed his lip again, this time with two slick thumbs working outward from the centre, my fingers cradling his chin. He closed his eyes, and I felt the vibration of a low hum in the soft meat of his neck. He was enjoying this. I didn’t understand it; he’d been so horrified earlier. 

"Uhh, it's not really coming off," I said. "I could try a spell."

"You've had far too much to drink, you'd prol… probbem… probably spell my lip off." He looked at me a little dazedly, and then said, "Know you didn't want to kiss me again, but perhaps, um..." He pointed his finger at me and did a little circular motion, and I felt the minty chill of a courtesy Breath-Freshening Charm puff into my mouth, and then he seemed to do the same to himself. “Vindaloo and garlic naan,” he said, by way of an explanation, and it was a fair point. 

And that was all the invitation my tipsy—and blisteringly horny—self needed to straddle Malfoy, clasp his chin once more, tip it upwards, lean in and draw his bepurpled lip into my mouth. 

I sucked loose and clumsy, using my tongue to cleanse him, the ink bitter and tannic, and when Malfoy moaned low in his throat, I thought I might come right there and then. 

He began to pant hard against my mouth, and the next thing I knew his tongue was tracing a question against my upper lip, over my teeth. I released his lip, gratified with the soft bounce of it, and that it was back to it's dusky pinkness, and drove into the kiss proper, my hands sliding up into his hair, and everywhere was lucent and gossamer-soft and just fucking brilliant. 

From the avid noises coming from Malfoy, and the desperate way his hands clung to my arse, I could safely bet the entire contents of my vault he was enjoying it as much as me. 

He pulled me firm against him, and his robe-covered erection urged itself against the crook of my groin, and all meaningful sense left me, the need to rut took over, and I began thrusting, unable to stop a hungry growl escaping. 

"Salazar," Malfoy hissed. "Knew you'd be like this, Potter. Knew you'd be filthy." Fuck, that meant… that meant Malfoy'd been thinking about what I'd be like. _What I’d be like to have sex with._ I wondered if it was while wanking, and my ever-helpful mind supplied me with the appropriate image—him with half-closed eyes fluttering, slack-mouthed as he worked himself over, maybe even whispering my name. Then Malfoy nuzzled into my neck, nipping lightly and scraping his teeth along my day-old stubble, and mumbled against my skin, "What made you change your mind about kissing me again?"

"Never said I'd changed my mind, you plonker," I managed, luxuriating in the rhythmic roll of my cock against Malfoy's. " _You_ were the one who asked _me_ not to. I _told_ you. I did it 'cause I wanted to."

"But you— aah, unnh," he panted, "Wait… fuck, I can't remember now. Ah, gods that's good. Just… trying to establish… consent. Do you want me or not, Potter?"

"Well, you're killing the bloody mood now, but yeah, I really want..."—I stilled my hips, unsure for a moment—"And you… you want too?"

"Merlin, you're slow. _Yes_ , Potter, I want very fucking much.” He canted his hips up to punctuate his point, and, to be fair to him, the heft of the stiffy in his trousers was very convincing. “Now move!"

And move I did. Frotted the fucking arse off him actually, until I came into my boxer-briefs, gasping and gripping his silken hair, and it was the single most spectacular unexpected orgasm I'd ever had the pleasure to shudder through. 

* * *

Salazar on a broom, I had not _quite_ anticipated the evening ending that way. 

I knew Potter was hot—I've been saying as much to Pansy and Theo for years, bless them both—but nothing in the known universe could have prepared me for how something as seemingly innocuous as a thumb on my lip would end up with me coming as fast as the Hogwarts Express, and chuffing almost as much, incidentally.

It was urgent and greedy and fucking marvellous. 

And we were fully clothed.

Which was useful really, because then came the awkward aftermath. For whatever reason, I began to fret that Potter had just given in to drunken urges and didn't in fact want me, despite his claims. Call it survival instinct, I suppose, but I couldn't bear the thought of him reproaching himself for being with me, Draco Death-Eater Malfoy. He, a decorated war-hero, and me, a cowardly Voldy-crawler. I've never taken rejection well—let us not forget the great spurned handshake of '91 (Pansy reckons that set off most of the insecurities I have today). So, after a hurried Scourgify—very hurried, even afterwards my crotch still felt decidedly gluey—I gathered my things and made my excuses. Admittedly, he did appear satisfyingly dismayed at my departure, and I was equally dispirited to be leaving, but it was for the best. 

When I think about it, I suppose I'd spent the best part of the last six years suppressing my feelings about the gorgeous arsehole and that instinct doesn't go away overnight. I was afraid if I stayed any longer the depraved depth of my passion, affection and devotion to the prat would make itself obvious. And then? Well, then I'd have to quit the Aurors and go into hiding, perhaps in the Outer Hebrides, and carve out a meagre living for myself crocheting doilies with little dragon motifs to sell at the village fête. Too much hassle entirely. And I couldn't crochet. 

I did my best to avoid Potter the following day, which was a little easier than it had been earlier in the week, as we had taken different elective subjects for some modules. So, while he spent the morning in Advanced Disguises, I was able to sit in Applied Antidotes alone and _dwell_ to my heart's content. Well, as alone as you can be with Seamus Finnigan as your lab partner; it's a little challenging to strip and de-seed bubotuber pods with a brute of a hangover (I’d felt so beastly that morning I couldn't even eat my toast; the crunch of it was too noisy), trying your damnedest to avoid thinking of Potter’s hot breath against your ear as he mumbles absolute filth into it, while someone is setting fire to the petri dishes containing your morning's work—dishes which are _supposed_ to be fire-proof, by the way, but that's Ministry cutbacks for you. 

I managed to avoid Potter in the canteen at lunchtime. Not my finest moment, I confess, ducking behind the pie cabinet, not least due to the look of terror and then annoyance I got from Meryl, the witch on lunch duty, as she went to restock the pumpkin pasties, but it served its purpose, because Potter looked around and seemed to decide not to stay for lunch. He had a package under his arm so I would have bet ten Galleons he was headed off to the Owlery.

I was in luck later too, because he arrived late to Muggle Detection Methods, so I could craftily ensure I sat somewhere with no adjacent free seats. Auror Holmes was demonstrating how Muggles take fingerprints, when Potter shuffled in, a Renervate! takeaway coffee cup in hand. Of course, Holmes nabbed poor Potter as he was attempting to locate a place to sit and used him as a guinea pig, as she was wont to do with latecomers. 

It was all mildly amusing until Holmes asked Potter to press his thumb into some ink so she could compare his print against the ones she'd just collected from the side of the coffee cup. Once Potter had transferred his thumbprint to the paper, he very slowly and deliberately swiped a black smudge onto his own lower lip and stared straight at me, the absolute wanker, and not an angry stare either, one I can only describe as predatory.

All the heat and fervour from the night before coursed through me, blindingly bright and vivid, and to my shame, I leapt up from my seat and fled the lecture chamber. I know, I _know_ , cowardly as fuck, but I think you'll find I never claimed to be a Gryffindor. 

After a swift wank in the Gents, expedited by thoughts of that damnable ink on his burgundy red lips, I Flooed home to drink white wine and masturbate some more. A lot more. Merlin, I was fucked. And so was my wrist by bedtime. Nothing a healing spell couldn't remedy but _still_. 

I knew quite well I was only putting off what I was certain was an inevitable conversation. Because Circe knows, Potter would want to discuss _what happened_ in his stilted, awkward manner. And it would be frightful. 

Just before I drifted off to sleep, I jerked awake when an errant thought slid into my consciousness.

Tomorrow was pub night. 

We never missed pub night. Only a death of a loved one or a spell in St Mungo’s were acceptable excuses. And I couldn't fake either of those things in good conscience. And I do have a conscience _actually_ —no need to be cheeky. So, we'd need to thrash out what to send Father during the day. _And_ have The Talk. 

Fabulous.


	7. Chapter 7

What the fuck? Malfoy was avoiding me. Again. 

The prick. 

Fucking Slytherins. Impossible to figure out. He'd been all over me last night. Gods, just the thought of his rough moans as I rutted against him had me plumping in my pants during Advanced Disguises practice—which felt a _little_ odd because at the time I was glamoured to look like a 30-year-old woman. Thank Merlin for the fit and flare of skater dresses, because despite me casting the spell perfectly, if I do say so myself, the significant bulge (if I also say so myself) in a tighter outfit could have slightly hampered my efforts to pass as female. 

Couldn't find the bastard at lunch either. I thought about asking Meryl if she'd seen him, but she looked a bit flustered by a batch of pies. 

And then the git just bloody legged it out of class as soon as I caught his eye! I supposed I needed to work a bit more on my sultry stare; seemed like I totally put the willies up him, and not in the good way. The ink smearing was clearly a step too far, but, bloody hell, it was _way_ too serendipitous to pass up. Merlin help me, I'm even picking up fancy words from him now. 

He was probably regretting it. To be fair, he _was_ pretty sozzled the night before. And, thinking back, he did leave in an awful hurry afterwards. Fuck. He was, wasn't he? He was totally regretting it. 

Bollocks. 

Why do I always jump in headfirst to these things? Or thumbs first, in this case. 

Anyway, key thing was I managed to go buy the stupid milkmaid butter dish and get that plus the letter owled off to Lucius. Not that I held out much hope for him accepting the offer of setting up a charity with me, what with him being a prick of the highest order and having the heart of a twelve-minute egg. The day of reckoning was looming closer and closer, and as I cast a Heating Charm on my Tesco ready-meal-for-one—not my usual choice of dinner, though their luxury macaroni and cheese _was_ yummy, but I'd foolishly bought in the makings of a shepherd's pie, assuming Malfoy would be around that night (Hermione would call it hubris, but I liked to think of it as optimism), and I didn't feel inclined to make it without him there—I began to wonder what it would be like if we had to go through with the engagement, and ultimately get married. 

I looked down at my bare ring finger trying to picture Malfoy sliding a shiny gold ring onto it. I could almost feel the smooth pads of his fingers on mine, and the ring's cool weight encircling my finger. I could just imagine the ridiculous get-up he'd wear to the wedding too—which would likely be held in the Manor gardens for maximum impact and exposure—flowing ivory silk robes, no doubt, with a million pearl buttons, and gold thread embroidery, and tassels and ruffles and frills and epaulettes and matching top hat and diamanté studded spats over white snakeskin brogues, and ever-so-smooth breeches that hugged his thighs and cinched in at his waist, and Jesus H Merlin, thank fuck for Kreacher Apparating into the kitchen right at that moment to tell me Colin was in distress, or those bloody silly thoughts would have kept my mind occupied all the way through dinner, and probably right through to bedtime, and I'd have forgotten all about my poor partridge. 

Instead I let Colin out of his cage to peck around in the kitchen for a bit. And I ate my ready meal. And then I cleaned up. Well, vanished the microwaveable carton.

As I leaned back against the sink my eyes landed on the empty chair where Malfoy had sat the night before. Sat with his sleek hair, criticising my crockery and cutting up his naan into evenly sized pieces. 

All was quiet except for Colin scratching about looking for bits of dropped food. I put him back in his cage, and then stroked his soft grey feathers, and he cooed placidly. I ran a finger along his pointy nose… I mean his beak, his pointy beak. I looked again at the empty chair. 

Shit.

I missed Malfoy. 

* * *

Friday dawned, and with it a renewed sense of perspective. There were only four more days of this farcical Twelve Days custom left, so I needed to sort it out post-haste. And that meant not being a frightful coward like I dearly wanted to be, and instead being a responsible grown up and dealing with The Potter Thing. How in the name of Salazar's green girdle I managed to get myself into these situations, I'll never know.

I breakfasted in the living room for a change, levitating my French Earl Grey tea and some toast and marmalade to the tray on the shiny black coffee table (spilling a drop or two, due to the lingering twinge in my wrist—the perils of overzealous masturbation). I did so because I wanted another look at one of the ancient tomes that I'd pilfered from the Manor library. I was curious as to the origins of this Pureblood custom, as it seemed a most circuitous and tedious way of achieving a goal. I also reasoned to myself that if I had some interesting tidbits to share with Potter, we might put off discussing the 'us' thing. It appeared I was still a beastly coward, after all. 

As it turned out, there was precious little information to be gleaned, save for a few lines describing it as a unique and festive way of negotiating an agreeable and congenial outcome for both parties. Utter hippogriff dung, every word. The book made it sound like a jolly jape, rather than coercion into a binding, non-consensual arrangement under threat of magical and genital degradation. 

Moments before I was about to Floo to the Ministry, the fireplace flared green with a soft 'woof' and there was Pansy's head in the flames calling, "Draco, darling, I hope you're decent". 

“Of course I am, Pans,” I replied, gesturing to my maroon trainee robes, “It’s almost half eight. Unlike you, I'm not a complete sybarite.”

“Oh, don’t be a prig,” she retorted. “I’m decent too, I’ve got my kimono on; the goodies are all tucked away.”

"Spare me the details!" I said, camping up the dramatic tone for best effect. "Anyway, what can I do for you at this early hour. I daresay it’s almost your bedtime."

She ignored the jibe. "I just wanted to ask if you could bring along a jar or two of your gorgeous raspberry jam tomorrow. Tuffy is baking scones for elevenses."

Shit. In the giddiness of the past week, I'd completely forgotten that I was to visit with Pansy on Saturday morning. I covered it well, though—no surprises there. 

“Why, of course. I do so adore Tuffy's baking. Are you inviting any of the others? I can bring them a jar each to take home.” 

It was a little-known fact, except amongst my dearest friends, that I'd been making my own jams and preserves for the last year, and I don't mind telling you I was tremendously good at it. It wasn't unlike potion-making, and I seemed to have a knack for getting the flavours just right. The secret to my popular raspberry jam was the addition of a handful of redcurrants to temper the sweetness. 

"Yes. Daphne and Theo said they'd pop over too." 

"Very good," I said. Then paused and lifted an eyebrow. "Not Blaise?"

"Ugh. Ixnay on the Aise-blay."

"Oh," I said, gravely, though it was not a shock that things were seemingly less than rosy between them; Pansy and Blaise had been on-again off-again since Hogwarts. Both far too alike, to be honest. High maintenance and hedonistic, with a light sprinkling of narcissism. Actually, make that a generous sprinkling in Blaise's case.

"I'll tell you about it tomorrow, sweetie. I've got to dash."

"Alright. See you tomorrow," I called, but she had already disappeared, and the flames hissed and crackled in her absence. 

I arrived at the Ministry half an hour before classes, confident that Potter would be in the canteen, tucking into some manner of baked good. And sure enough, on walking in, I spied his unruly mop at a table alongside Granger’s equally lawless barnet, and as I suspected, Potter’s mouth was wrapped around a sausage roll—a highly unhelpful sight when I was trying to rein in my ardour for him—and there were little flakes of puff pastry dotted across his upper lip. 

As I walked towards the table where he sat, he looked up and spotted me. Surprise, uncertainty, and finally a look of pure joy flashed over his features, as he hastily swiped the crumbs of pastry from his mouth. And it was that last look, that unbridled smile, that took my breath away, made my stomach flutter wildly, and made me walk straight into a fucking chair. 

Pain shot through my knee, and I must have grimaced, because the next thing I knew, Potter had snapped a brisk _Anti-Sensari_ at my leg. I stumbled sideways as all the feeling went out of my knee.

Potter jumped up to help steady me, his hand gripping my bicep and the other on my lower back, and I scowled at him. “You really need to stop casting courtesy charms at people without warning. I could have ended up with a much worse injury.” 

His face fell. “Shit, I’m sorry. I bloody felt it when you banged your knee. It sounded painful.” He crouched down for a closer look at the knee in question, though what he thought he’d be able to see through the barathea wool of my Ministry-issued breeches, I had no idea. In any case, I resolutely did _not_ commit the image of him kneeling before me to memory. 

“Apology accepted,” I nodded. “Yes, it did sting a little. I suppose I should thank you for the Numbing Charm, very thoughtful of you, despite the results. Your reflexes appear to be as alarmingly swift over breakfast as they are in the duelling room.” 

The blush that rose on Potter’s cheeks was particularly gratifying, and I didn’t miss his eyes hesitating at my crotch as they travelled upwards from my knees to my face. He stood up and cleared his throat.

“Er, yeah, thanks. Um, Hermione and I were just discussing the Twelve Days stuff actually, d’you want to join us?”

“Yes, why not? Good morning, Granger,” I said, limping the last step to the table. It was strictly last names only for _all_ the Gryffindors. No exceptions. 

“Morning, Draco,” Granger smirked knowingly, rising to stand. “I was just going to grab us another quick snack before lectures start… although,”—she tilted her head sideways and looked upwards thoughtfully—“it’s Obliviation this morning, so I could probably skip it. Can I get you a coffee?”

“Thank you, but no,” I replied. “The coffee here tastes like water wrung from a wet mop. I would cheerfully accept a cup of tea though, if you’re offering.” The canteen tea was more like water wrung from wet cardboard and thus marginally more palatable.

No sooner had Granger walked away than Potter was hissing at me. “What was going on with you yesterday? You avoided me all day. Don’t try to deny it.”

And so, The Talk had begun. Wonderful.

“I'm not denying it. I, ah, I needed some time to think. Wednesday night was very… intense.”

“I knew it. You’re regretting it."

“Well, I… Aren’t _you_?”

“Er…” He closed his eyes for a second and scrunched up his brow, which indicated to me that there was something Gryffindorish trying to get out and he was warring with it.

“Let’s hear it, Scarface. Might as well tell me, I _am_ thick-skinned underneath this delicate complexion. One has to be when one comes out on the losing side of a war.”

It was a pure lie of course. Whatever he said would no doubt wound me immeasurably, but It didn’t do to be open and honest about such things. 

* * *

“Honestly? I don’t know. It was…” I could feel my face heating up. “Well, it was brilliant.” There, I'd said it.

Malfoy opened and closed his mouth. Not like him to have nothing to say. And therefore I had no idea what it meant. 

I carried on gamely. “But it’s hard to sort out what I think about it. About ‘us’...”—at that, Malfoy flinched, _visibly fucking flinched_ —“...y’know with a bloody betrothal hanging over our heads. It all feels a bit… mental.” 

“Mental. I’m not entirely sure what you’re getting at, Potter.”

“Well, actually, neither am I. All I know for sure is—"

But I didn't get to finish the sentence because Hermione arrived back at the table, singing, " _On the third day of Christmas, my true love sent to me... three French toasts, two black teas, and a coffee for the husband-to-be_."

“Har bloody har,” I groused, but added, "Cheers for the coffee, ‘Mione… and the French toast. You're a legend."

And then Malfoy thanked Hermione graciously too—despite him having clear reservations about the canteen version of one of his absolute favourite breakfasts (and the fact I knew that was pretty telling, but right then was not the time to examine that little reality)—and it was plain to see that he was pretty relieved that our chat had been cut short. 

It was so obvious he was regretting the other night. Hadn’t he just squirmed like a flobberworm on a chopping board when I asked why he'd been avoiding me? And he didn’t even give me a proper answer.

I'd really got my hopes up too, but his body language was pretty clear. He was really uncomfortable around me, and I just had to accept it wasn't to be. Such a bollocks though, because I really felt we had a spark, a connection. Not to mention all our shared history, and that we still managed to get along despite that. Sort of. For the most part. 

Just. I fucking liked him. A lot.

I felt deflated. And I discovered that Ministry coffee and French toast were piss-poor re-inflators. What did help though was when Ron joined us, on his way to the Ludicrous Patents office, and regaled us with a few more bizarre Pureblood customs he'd unearthed (he and Hermione had been steadily working their way through the books I’d rather unheroically left behind at their house). According to Ron, if an Irish Leprechaun calls at your door you must, by Pureblood law, give him a share of your dinner. He received a swift stinging hex when he suggested the Leprechaun wouldn’t call again in a hurry if Hermione was on dinner duty. 

“Ow! Bloody hell, Mi, you nearly got my privates there. Can’t have _both_ me and Harry with no family jewels left.”

Malfoy looked appalled at that comment, and cast a worried glance my way, a bite of French toast halfway to his mouth, but relaxed when he realised I was laughing.

“Oh, and get this,” Ron said. “I was reading about Scottish Pureblood hospitality rules, and it said that if a stranger knocks on your door and asks to use your loo, you're _legally obliged_ to just open your doors and let them in. It’s called a Cludgie Caller; apparently ‘cludgie’ means loo up North. Obviously Mouldy Voldy hadn’t read up on his Scottish customs, or he could have won the war by just knocking on the doors of Hogwarts and saying ‘Ah’m burstin’ for a piss, can ah use yer cludgie?’.” 

“Merlin, can you imagine?” I said, giggling. “Although he’d probably never have escaped Moaning Myrtle’s clutches. She’s always liked a bad boy.”

Malfoy visibly shuddered, and with a jolt I realised what I’d said. I winced as images flooded my mind. Malfoy sobbing in a bathroom; raised wands; blood spurting; Myrtle screaming. Fuck, what was wrong with me and my stupid mouth?

Malfoy sighed. “I think it’s time to go to class, Potter.” 

I swallowed around the painful lump that had just formed in my throat, then nodded and stood.

* * *

" _'...As my son will no doubt corroborate, I have little concern for the common man, woman or child, except to lament their commonness, and to keep myself at a firm distance from them_. _As such, I refuse to spend my precious time labouring to make their pointless existences any easier._ ' Fucking hell, Malfoy, your dad is some piece of work." 

Potter flung the piece of parchment at me, scowling, and it almost landed in my macchiato. I squinted at that, but not at the contents of the letter. I wasn't surprised at those in the slightest. 

"Indeed," I sighed. "Didn't you know, Potter? My father is like the cockerel who thinks the sun comes up just to hear him crowing."

"He's a cock alright, but not that sort." 

"Trust you to be vulgar. But, yes, you're quite right."

"I mean I've nothing against being woken by a chirpy cock of a morning, but I prefer the kind that has a naked man on the end of it."

"Fucking hell, Potter." I felt hot all over. 

"Oops," he grinned. "TMI?" 

"Just… unnecessary." 

Unnecessary, in that I did _not_ need to be picturing myself prodding a bare, sprawled out, sleepy Potter into wakefulness with my tumescent dick. At least, not while we were sitting in Rennervate! under the hyper-observant, sparkly eye of Balthazar, at any rate. _Salazar_. I should have ordered a cold drink.

"Sorry," he laughed. "You can't tell me you're offended, though, mate. I've heard you cracking some pretty spicy jokes in the pub. And making lewd innuendos about your sex life." 

"No, not offended. Just. Well, it's a little off-putting to talk about my father in one breath and your licentiousness in the next." I cleared my throat to cover the rasp in my voice. "And as you well know, all bets are off when it comes to pub nights." And _therein_ lay my major worry for the evening to come. "Anyway, we should really be focusing on the task at hand." 

"Yeah, fair enough." He smiled cheerily, as he was wont to do. And my heart clenched at the easiness of it. "I hate to admit it, but I really love the gift Lucius sent today."

"Goodness, do you?" I said. "So do I! It's so charming. And in such beautiful condition for an antique toy. The dancers are just exquisite, look at their delicate costumes. See how the—" Potter was looking at me fondly, and I felt self-conscious all of a sudden. I cleared my throat. "I rather assumed you'd not be keen on it, actually."

"What with me being _so_ very uncouth and uncultured," he drawled, in an atrocious impression of me, and I couldn't help laughing at him, the berk.

"Something like that," I managed. 

"I'll have you _know_ ," he went on, though his grip on the Home Counties accent was beginning to waver, "my cousin had a similar wooden theatre when we were children. Only it was a circus theme, rather than a ballet one like this. I was so jealous of it."

Potter had shown me the vintage toy theatre after morning lectures, and it _was_ darling, with its raised proscenium in fine Baltic birch, and two sliding curtain panels which opened to gorgeous Victorian illustrations and interior set pieces. The fabulous marionette ballet dancers were just the icing on the cake, and I could see how he'd have been captivated by such a thing as a child. 

But not _jealous_. I shook my head. 

"Envious. You were _envious_ , not jealous." Potter hated when I got all semantic-y. Which was precisely why I never failed to. 

"Yes, whatever, _envious_. Bloody hell. Anyway, he never let me play with it."

"The little toad. I hope you didn't share your toys with him either."

"Yeah. I wouldn't have… if I'd had any."

My stomach dropped. How could I have forgotten about his mistreatment? I suppose because he never spoke of it. I knew a little from the scurrilous bios and exposés I'd read following the war, but it wasn't always easy to separate the truth from hyperbole. 

"You didn't have any toys? Nothing to play with?"

"Nah, no _toys_ as such. But I had plenty to play with. Well, when I wasn’t doing chores. You know, a tea-towel makes a fine cowboy bandana, a tea-tray and colander for a knight’s shield and helmet, some kitchen spray as a police pistol, and a sweeping brush serves as a grand horse…" He paused. "Ha! That's probably where my love of broom-flying came from. Although, having said all that, if I was caught by my aunt playing with all that stuff I'd have been sent to my cupboard." He laughed half-heartedly and my heart ached (despite my not having the foggiest what a kitchen spray or a bandana were). I wanted to reach for his hand on the table and give it a squeeze. 

So I did. 

And he looked at me, eyes wide and so desolate, for a long moment, before he chuckled again, and said, "It's fine.” But his voice cracked a little on the words. He shook his head and he looked down at our hands, still clasped. “Honestly, it is. It was a long time ago. I've been to a Mind Healer. The Dursleys can't hurt me anymore. I found a new family. I have people who love me now." He recited the words as if they were a mantra. 

The surge of love I felt for him in that moment almost made me sob aloud. I wanted to tell him how he'd _always_ be loved. How _I_ would love him, no matter what. How I'd protect him… always... if things were different. If I wasn't me and he wasn't him, and we were just two men who liked one another, having coffee, with no baggage or history or notoriety or reputations to uphold or… or... 

I ached for how much I wanted that. 

But, of course—and you'll not be surprised at this—I said nothing. I merely gave his hand another squeeze and said, "I'm so sorry you went through that awfulness. And glad you have people who appreciate you now." Something flickered at the edge of my vision, and when I turned Balthazar was looking straight at Potter, his eyes shimmering with more than glitzy makeup. I knew how he fucking felt. Merlin, why did Harry Potter always make me _feel_ so many fucking things? 

"Yeah, no worries. So huh, we'd better think of something for the next gift," Potter was blabbering rapidly, quite obviously scrabbling to change the subject. "What's after ladies dancing? Ten lords-a-leaping, I think. What the fuck are we supposed to give for that? Some blokes jumping about?” His voice was beginning to rise, and I strongly suspected hysteria was creeping in. “Helga in a Hi-Ace, Malfoy, how is this a fucking thing? Like, what the fuck did people gift for this in days gone by, because right now all I can think of is hot guys jumping on me." And at that he groaned "oh Merlin" in a sort of strained, wanton manner that made my cock twitch. Salazar, Merlin, and all the druids.

"Potter, w-what's got into you?" I stammered, at the very same moment that Potter was shaking his head and saying, "Gahhhh, I dunno what's got into me. Sorry."

We both fake-laughed nervously, and Balthazar cleared his throat, a little more noisily than should have been necessary, I might add.

"Tell you what," I said, voice a trifle shaky, "why don't we both have a think about the gift? I’ll make a few enquiries with some contacts I have, and we can rendezvous later." 

I got to my feet carefully, feeling a bit of a wobble in my knees. 

"Alright,” he said, examining the contents of his cup. Then he looked up, eyes hopeful. “I'll see you tonight?" 

"Yes," I said, resigned. "Yes, I'll see you at The Leaky."


	8. Chapter 8

It was proper hunch-weather. Sleet was coming down hard, and the wind was biting at my nose and cheeks. I pushed open the heavy oaken door of The Leaky Cauldron and was hit with the familiar wall of warmth, sounds and smells. Truth be told, I’d been feeling a bit off since speaking to Malfoy earlier that day, sort of like I was coming unhinged, and had found it hard to focus for the rest of the day. However, as I scanned the pub for familiar faces, the sight of the fire burning fiercely in the oversized hearth and the ring of raucous laughter cheered me instantly.

I heard Seamus before I spotted him, regaling the gang with details of a stag weekend he'd been on in Ireland. I followed the lilt of his voice until I located the group, which comprised the usual Ron, Hermione, Seamus and Dean, and I was pleased to see that Susan Bones and Ernie Macmillan had joined too. Malfoy was nowhere to be seen though.

“...nah lads, it was a great few days in Dublin, all the same. The Dubs are so easygoing. Take the top-hatted doorman at the hotel. He saw me leavin’ in the morning after a proper heavy night with me brothers in Temple Bar. Merlin, I was hangin’. Face as grey as an overcast sky, walkin’ like Quasimodo himself, and he just looked at me and said... ‘it’s allowed.’ And I nodded, and I knew I’d be alright, y’know? Ah, hiya Harry!”

Everyone turned and called their hellos, and then proceeded to shout their orders. Which was basically pints for everyone except Dean who asked for a Malibu and Coke and got mercilessly slagged off (and rightly so). 

As I waited at the bar for Tom to pull the pints, I considered whether Malfoy would even show. Things had begun to feel a bit weird between us. The imminent betrothal was _not_ helping. And the sex stuff the other night was probably a mistake. I felt dejected at that thought to be honest—trust me to fuck things right up—and scowled a bit too savagely when Tom advised me to cheer up, and that it might never happen. I managed to stop myself telling him where he could fuck off to, and that maybe I _wanted_ it to happen, whatever _it_ was, and instead I just huffed and cast Wingardium at the tray of drinks. 

But when I returned to the table with the round, there he was, the gorgeous blond git, removing what looked like a Muggle denim jacket, festooned with colourful pin badges above the breast pockets—and _why_ had I never seen it before? Was it new?—and squeezing in next to Ron with a wiggle. 

Ron, who was currently roaring at Seamus. "It'll be your stag do next, Shay! When you gonna make an honest man of Dean?"

Dean went beetroot, and I passed him his Malibu. He took a grateful gulp.

"Jaysus," laughed Seamus, "there's no rush to be doing all that, am I right, Deano?" He pulled Dean towards him by the waist. "Sure lookit. Mam always said the longest sentence in the world is just two words: _I do._ And she'd know, being married to me da. Sentence worse than death, that." And he laughed uproariously.

I glanced at Malfoy and he was staring at Seamus, face paler than I'd ever seen it. And that's saying something. Malfoy usually had the pallor of a Hogwarts ghost, but now he was pure chalk white. And a word floated into my consciousness. _Beautiful_. I'd never thought that about a guy before. Fit, yeah. Sexy, for sure. But not beautiful. And he was, even in his obvious distress. The talk of marriage was clearly freaking him out. I knew him too well. 

And that was a thought. _I knew him too well._

“Hey, Malfoy,” I said, handing out the rest of the drinks. He looked up at me, still ashen. “My round. What’re you having? Wait, don’t tell me,”—I closed my eyes and put my hand to my brow as if having a premonition—“a pint of Tintagel Pale Ale?” 

He smiled then, and some colour returned to his cheeks. “Ah, there you are, Scarhead. Yes, please.”

“Righto,” I said. Yep, it was confirmed. I definitely knew him too well. I studiously avoided Ron and Hermione’s knowing looks.

Malfoy stood. “Actually, I’ll accompany you to the bar, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” I said, with a pleased smile. I chanced a quick glance at my friends and regretted it as soon as I did, the smile slipping off my face. Susan and Ernie’s eyebrows were raised. Seamus and Dean were smirking like kneazles. And Ron and Hermione were both totally bug-eyed and looking like they were trying to send me silent messages via the medium of complex and exaggerated eye movements. I ignored them all.

Malfoy walked ahead of me up to the bar, giving me a chance to study his outfit. He’d clearly been home and got changed. He had the tight ripped jeans on, the ones he’d been wearing at my house last week, and the way they hugged, nay _embraced_ , his arse had to be a violation of some safety code. Tighter than a hospital corner or a well-swaddled newborn. A jet-black fitted shirt finished off the look pretty stylishly, not that I was anyone to judge a person’s fashion sense, I thought, glancing down at my boring jeans and jumper. Either way, it was making me thirsty for more than just a pale ale. 

We leaned against the bar waiting for the bartender to notice us, elbows and hips pressing together in the jam and jostle of the crowd. I detected something sandalwood-y and masculine over and above his normal rosehip scent, some sort of cologne, and it smelled pretty marvellous.

“So,” I ventured.

“So,” he echoed.

“How was the rest of your day?” Well, I had to start the conversation with _something_.

“Alright, thanks. I learned how to dislocate someone’s knees after lunch. Which was fun.”

I chuckled. “In Combat training, I hope?”

“No, actually, on the mean streets of Whitehall. Yes, of course Combat training.”

“Dolt,” I said, shoving him with my elbow. “Sounds like I’d better watch what I say from now on, case you get cross and grapple me to the floor.” As soon as I said it, I realised the double meaning and my ears got kind of hot. 

Looked like Malfoy’s ears were doing the same though, which made me feel worse. And then oddly, a bit better. I coughed.

“So, I’m still struggling to come up with a gift for your dad for tomorrow. Best I could think of for Lords-a-leaping is a bouncy castle.”

“I’m sorry, a what?” 

I had to laugh at Malfoy’s puzzled face. Didn’t wizards have bouncy castles? I loved bouncy castles. Well, I imagine that I’d have loved them, at least. I was never allowed on them at Dudley’s parties. And Dudley’s parties were the only parties I ever attended. If you could say attended, I was more of a caterer and waiter, to be fair… 

I realised Malfoy was still staring at me bewilderedly.

“Er… It’s an inflatable castle. For jumping on. Usually for kids’ parties, like. Could put it in the gardens of the Manor and tell Lucius to round up nine of his mates and have at it.”

“I really have no idea how to respond to that, Potter.” Malfoy said, and I could see by the quirk of his upper lip he was trying very hard not to smile. “Though I’m vainly hoping that you’re having me on, and I won’t have to.”

“Sorry,” I said, laughing, “I’m really not contributing much to this whole process, am I?”

“Well, I didn’t want to say… But the phrase ‘useless as a paper cauldron’ comes to mind.” 

I elbowed him again, and thrillingly, he elbowed me back. Then Tom finally came round to us and I ordered Malfoy’s drink.

“I had a slightly less ridiculous idea,” Malfoy said, picking up a beermat and turning it over. “Though it’ll seem a little boring compared to my father and his dignified society acquaintances jumping about in a child’s play-castle.”

“God, I’d pay a _lot_ of Galleons to see that.”

“Quite.” Another lip quirk. “So, I was having difficulty thinking of a suitable gift too and I decided to owl that Freyja lady in the antique shop—”

“The one who thought we were an item,” I said.

“Yes,” he laughed. And I laughed too.

“ _Ridiculous_ ,” he added with an eye-roll and a flick of the head. And I couldn't help feeling a tiny stab of hurt at that. Or more than tiny, really. Was it really _that_ absurd? “Anyway, the old dear said they have a set of ten Christmas tree baubles with leaping lords on, so, in my opinion, that would fit the bill perfectly. They’re antique silver, and she said they’re really jolly; the leaping lords are all historical figures, Nicholas Flamel, Ulick Gamp, Eldritch Diggory, and so forth. Even includes Maximiliano Malfoy, my great great great grand uncle, which Father would be tickled pink about—don’t squint at me like that Potter, I’ll have you know Maximiliano Malfoy was quite the famous potioneer; managed to modernise the Wiggenweld Potion into the Draught of Living Death that you and I know today—”

“Oh _yes_ , I use it regularly. A few drops in my tea each morning, and my skin’s never been glowier.”

“Such sharp sarcasm from one so dull,” he sighed. “You’re quite the card this evening. Do you ever take anything seriously?” He jabbed my ribs again with his elbow

“Ow! Merlin you’re pointy. _I do._ Really, I do. Yeah, so wow. I’ll admit the Christmas baubles are a much better idea than the bouncy castle one. Shame, though, it was such a beautiful image, them bouncing and flouncing around the place, like excited pugs.” Malfoy was right. I really was the spare prick in this situation. I needed to up my game. “How peculiar though, that the shop has a set of tree ornaments so _exactly_ suited to our needs.” 

“Yes, yes, quite fortuitous. Thank you, Tom,” he added, taking the pint off the barman. I couldn't help staring at Malfoy then, like he was a stage hypnotist, and I was the susceptible audience member. He took a big slurp followed by a satisfied _ahhh_ and then licked the beer froth off his upper lip, leaving a shiny wet stripe there which glistened attractively in the fairy lights that bedecked every inch of the bar. How had I forgotten in the space of a few seconds how, as well as being a wizard, just how very _human_ he was, how he was a flesh and bone man, intelligent and witty and kind and very bloody hot. Why was it just hitting me anew? I knew all this _already_. I needed a drink. And to think hard about this whole _feelings_ situation.

I made to walk back to the table, and Malfoy grabbed my wrist. His fingers were ice-cold and damp from the pint glass. A shiver ran all the way down my neck, back and legs.

“Wait,” he said. “We need to think about the letter, too. Not exactly something we can discuss at the table with the others.” 

“Good point. I feel like we’ve offered him every bloody thing under the sun at this stage. What else can we possibly do?”

“I don’t know. You already offered to speak about him favourably in the Prophet, to get him a job at the Ministry, to start a charity with him… He wants our families to be aligned somehow, what else could you offer? Aside from the obvious marriage thing.”

“Yeah. Aside from that,” I said, and something knotted tightly in my stomach. “Well, let’s think quick, my pint is all the way over there and it’ll be flat and warm before long.”

Just then someone knocked into me, and I said “Oi, mate, watch it.”

“I’m so terribly sorry, Mr. Potter,” was the obsequious response, and I had to stop my lip from curling at the deference. However, when the bloke shouted at the barman for a warm spiced butterbeer, a shimmering vision of spiced butterbeer ice-cream drifted across my mind’s eye, and my mouth watered. 

And then I had an idea. Maybe, at last, now was my time to finally contribute.

* * *

“Ice-cream? Why would my father be interested in ice-cream?”

Potter had clearly lost it, once and for all.

He was suggesting that he and Father go into business together, purchase the ailing Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlour and, I don’t know, restore it to its former glory, or something. It was laughable.

“That place used to be a goldmine, Malfoy.” 

I thought about that for a second, taking a long sip of biscuity ale. “It was definitely a lot busier before the war,” I conceded. “There used to be queues out the door and around the corner. Though Father was always able to skip to the top for me. I’d complain quite vociferously otherwise. Gosh, I _was_ a little shitball at times, wasn’t I?”

“Well, I didn’t want to say… But the phrase 'as spoiled as a curdled Pepperup' comes to mind.”

“Wanker,” I laughed. “And _touché_.”

“Yeah, so if we brought the Diagon branch back to life, we could perhaps scale it up and set up a branch in the Brighton Wizarding quarter. I think it would be really popular there, right by the beach.”

“Oh Merlin, you actually sound excited about working with my Father, I must be in an alternate universe. Or maybe just hallucinating.” I held my pint up to the light and gave it an exaggeratedly suspicious look. Potter roared with laughter, and the sight and sound of his mirth made me warm all over. “But seriously, how would you possibly have time for that? You’re training to be an Auror.”

He stopped laughing and sighed.

“You’re right, I wouldn’t. Maybe I could be a part-time Auror?” He shrugged. “If I’m honest, I’m not even sure I _want_ to be an Auror.”

“What?” I said. “Really? Harry Potter, the Saviour, not an Auror? Unthinkable.” Potter was made to be an Auror. He was the ultimate Auror. The uber-Auror. He was just so damn Auror-ific. Plus, he filled out the uniform so nicely. The word _dashing_ came to mind, and I thought it fitting—almost as fitting as his soft cotton duelling breeches, let me tell you. But my mind was wandering, and his face had dropped further. “It’s just...” I said, in a gentler tone, “I thought Auroring was your dream job?”

“Nah. Well, it was. Used to be. Before the war. But now… the thoughts of doing that all day every day are just a bit… meh.”

“A bit _meh_? And selling ice-cream with ex-convict Lucius Malfoy sounds more up your street, does it?”

“Granted, it’s not an _ideal_ partnership,”—and he grinned when I wheezed into my beer—“but I do love the idea of carrying on Fortescue’s legacy properly. I have a few ideas about new flavours too... but I’d have to figure out how to develop and make them.”

For a horrifying moment, I considered saying something about my jam-making expertise. My friends often commented on my flair for flavours—Daphne was rather keen on the cherry and amaretto preserve, while Mother adored my lime, gin and elderflower marmalade. But, no. I ‘kept schtum’, as Weasley would say. Quite honestly, there was little point getting into it. Father was hardly going to agree to any of this anyway.

“Er,” Potter said, looking at me expectantly. “So, is that decided then? Can I go and drink my beer now?”

I exhaled loudly. “I suppose.” 

“Brilliant. Come on,” and then he grabbed my elbow and herded me through the throng. When he placed a gentle hand on the small of my back, I felt myself stiffen momentarily, my breath catching, before I relaxed and let Potter usher me back to the group. 

“Bloody hell, there they are!” 

At Ron’s call, the conversation stopped, and everyone turned as one to watch us return. Potter’s hand disappeared from my back, and I missed its warmth. 

Potter slid in next to Seamus. “You better not have touched my pint, mate,” he warned him.

“I did not, how very dare you? Sure I’m on the coffee now. I’ve to head away soon.”

“But it’s only nine o’clock,” said Potter, frowning. “Not like you to go home at a sensible hour.”

“Meself and Dean are going for an early morning run. So I’ve ordered us Irish coffees.”

I scoffed, sitting myself down next to Granger and Weasley. “I hardly think Irish coffee is going to help.”

“I’ll have you know, Mister Malfoy, it contains the four essential food groups: alcohol, caffeine, sugar and fat. Anyway, we’ll sweat off all the alcohol tonight, won’t we Deano?”

The dusk of a blush bloomed on Thomas’ cheeks. I never knew quite whether to feel sorry for the poor chap for being tangled up with this rumbustious Irishman, or envious of him for the obvious amount of shagging he was getting on a regular basis, especially if Finnigan was as enthusiastic a lover as he was about everything else. The clear fact that they were hopelessly in love with each other ended up tipping the scales towards envy. 

Not for the first time I pondered whether I’d ever find _that someone_. To share my life with, to give pleasure to, to care for, to embarrass in the pub in front of friends. It hardly seemed possible that I’d love someone as much as I did Potter, or indeed that anyone could ever find anything about me to love to even half that extent. What did you do when ‘the one’ was the one person you could never have? He was everyone else’s Chosen One, but he would never be mine to choose. I made sure of that with the choices I made as a teenager. 

“Sickle for your thoughts.”

I looked up from my ale into Granger’s brown eyes. “Oh, just contemplating my existence. Nothing of any import.”

“Aha, nothing like a bit of existential reflection over a pint of ale,” she said, taking a sip of her beer which left her with a rather significant foam moustache, making her look like a French spy. She lowered her voice and narrowed her eyes, adding to the whole spy demeanour. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with what might or might not be happening in three days’ time when a certain pureblood ritual ends.”

“I’d be lying if I said that’s not on my mind on an almost constant basis,” I sighed. It was easier than telling her I was pining for a boyfriend. For Potter.

Granger licked the froth off her lip and then slipped her wand out of her sleeve surreptitiously. A moment later the glint of a perfectly cast Muffliato surrounded us, and the fug of the pub deadened considerably. “Talk to me,” she demanded. Quite fearsomely.

Did Granger really think I was going to spill all my secrets to her? If she did, she was completely bonkers. No Slytherin would ever— 

“Well, you see,” I caught myself saying, entirely without permission from my brain. “I just don’t think I’m handling this all that well.” Bollocks. It looked like I was going to be sharing confidences after all. I might as well French-plait her hair and have done with it.

“It’d be a lot for anyone to handle,” she said. “Between you and me, I think Harry’s dealing with this all rather _too_ well. He just doesn’t appear to be taking it seriously. He’s done next to no research, just messes around with Ron whenever I see him.” 

“And that surprises you?” I laughed. 

“Well, no,” she conceded. “No, not at all.”

I enjoyed Granger's company, to tell you the truth. And believe me, no one was more surprised about that than yours truly. She was a formidable woman and, as we all know, an extremely clever witch. And it was rather fun comparing notes on Weasley and Potter, or Numpty and Dumpty as she’d referred to them as only last week—to their faces, I might add, she’s not a complete bitch. Not always, at any rate.

“It’s just,” I said, leaning in closer to her, and catching the smell of her almond oil hair potion, “I’ve been researching every day and come up with nothing of use. If we can’t find a way to stop this, Potter and I will end up irreversibly betrothed. And I… I just _couldn’t_ put him through that. He doesn’t deserve that.”

“Malfoy. It wouldn’t be _you_ doing this to _him_. You’ll both suffer if this betrothal goes through. Neither of you deserve it.”

“Yes,” I murmured. “Of course.” _OfcourseOfcourseOfcourse._

What she didn’t know, _of course_ , was that I’d suffer either way. If we managed to wangle our way free of this accursed Twelve Days thing, and if the betrothal didn’t go through, I’d be left next to penniless without my allowance from Father. It was a scary thought. But it was infinitely preferable to a forced bond with someone I was desperately in love with and who _did not want me._ My heart couldn't bear it. 

I’d survive. Perhaps I could get a Muggle job to supplement my Trainee wages. I’d have to sell the flat of course, but maybe I could flat-share with someone. Theo, perhaps. He’d always been well-disposed to me. I’d survive. 

“It’s horrifically non-consensual,” Granger was saying. “Barbaric, in fact. I’ll never understand purebloods. But what I wanted to say to you is: there may be hope. I’m in the middle of reading a brilliant book about archaic rituals. Well... I say brilliant, much of it is quite alarming, but I _think_ there could be a way. It’ll involve some trickery on your and Harry’s parts, so we’ll need to get things exactly right. I’ll read up a little more on it but I’ll keep you updated. I’m more than aware you’ve not got much time.”

Well, there we go. Granger was going to come through after all. 

Potter would be overjoyed. Just... just as I was.

“That’s fantastic news,” I said, and I meant it, though my heart wrenched unpleasantly in my chest.

“You care about Harry a lot, don’t you?”

I hummed noncommittally and stared at the wood grain on the table. There was only _so much_ sharing I could handle.

“He likes you too, you know.” I looked at her, then. She was tilting her head in that irritating way people do when they feel a bit sorry for you, their eyes crinkling with good, wholesome intentions. But I was too surprised at what she said to be irritated. “Anyway,” she breezed, “don’t celebrate yet, it’s early days. I just wanted to give you a little hope. You looked so morose sitting there. I’ll do some more research tomorrow and let you know what’ll be involved.”

“Right. Yes. Thank you. If there’s anything I can do to help, just owl me.” 

She nodded, and I heard her whisper Finite Incantatem, though her lips didn’t move. 

“Oh, Granger,” I said, “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to let Potter know about the possible breakthrough. Is that… is that alright?” I wasn’t quite sure why I wanted to do that, but I felt compelled, and so I ignored the niggle of worry tingling at the back of my mind.

“Of _course_ ,” she replied, and threw me an unsettling expression I could only describe as a cross between smug and vixen-like. If only I wasn’t a one hundred percent card-carrying homosexual, and she wasn’t bumping uglies with the Weasel, I think I’d have been a little bit in love with her. As it was, I was just unreasonably fond.

For the rest of the evening I found myself talking with everyone and anyone _except_ Potter—a highlight of which, by the way, was a fiercely intense debate with Macmillan around the ethics of using Baruffio's Brain Elixir to solve cases (my take: it would do more damage than good)—however I couldn't seem to resist stealing furtive glances at the bespectacled prat every so often. I mean, for heavens sake, the man was wearing a biscotti-coloured woollen jumper that looked unbearably soft, and fuck me sideways if the colour didn't make his eyes shine the most gorgeous emerald. And when those eyes snagged on mine as he was chatting to Ron, and he threw me a gentle wink, I wanted to stand up and grab him by his soft woollen biceps and snog him silly. Merlin, it was a sickness. 

Instead, I distracted myself by consuming several more ales, as well as half a bag of bacon fries, and somehow, when the night drew to a close, I found myself accompanying Potter back to his house. I can remember mumbling some pretext about needing to tell him something in private, which he’d assented to without a moment’s hesitation, and him helping me into my ‘cute-as-fuck denim jacket’ as he insisted on calling it, and then quite merrily whirling me out of the pub and off up the street. I suspected he was rather drunk. When all I could do was giggle and lean into him, the solid bulwark of his body shoring me up and warming me against the night chill, I suspected that perhaps I was too.

And I suppose that could be to blame for how we shortly found ourselves stumbling over the threshold of Grimmauld Place and toppling onto the floor together, faces inches from each other—and closer than I’d like to the most hideous troll’s foot I’ve ever seen—legs tangled and chests heaving with laughter.

And I suppose, too, it could be to blame for what I did next.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to Tackytiger and M0stlyvoid for the chapter beta read.

It was about five seconds after Malfoy unceremoniously fell on top of me in the hallway, pin badges digging into my chest—particularly that pointy unicorn one—sniggering boozy-bacon-breath into my face, that I started to wonder if I might be in love with him. 

When his breathless giggling gave way to hushed panting, and his cool grey eyes turned serious, and he balefully whispered ‘ _Potter’_ so softly that I almost didn’t hear it, I had a very strong suspicion that, yes, ‘love’ might in fact be the correct description.

When he lowered his face towards mine, kissed my lips lightly for a heartstopping moment and then pulled back with a question in his eyes and a flush on his cheeks—not to mention a fair amount of devilment in his eyebrows—I _knew_. 

And all in a rush, I wanted to tell him. I wanted him to know. That I loved _him_ , Draco sodding Malfoy. And that it was impossible, really, because I'd always thought myself incapable of that sort of love. 

Well, I’d never _been_ in love with anyone, had I?

Sure—Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys; I loved them. And my parents too, what little I knew of them. Of course I did. But it wasn't like _this_. It wasn't I want to spend my life with you, kiss every inch of you, feed you chocolate-covered brazil nuts, and wash and iron your Quidditch socks kind of love. No. 

Thankfully not. 

I didn't let on, though. I just stared at him, heart beating out of my chest, and nodded, and then he fell on me again and kissed me properly, and, well, it was fierce and brilliant.

Though… brilliant as it was, something felt a little… off. And look, it might have been the annoying, nagging voice in the back of my mind telling me that Malfoy was drunk; he wasn't thinking straight. That in all likelihood this was another thing he was going to regret doing the next day, or even the next hour, or minute, or any second now. But it was bloody hard to focus on that tiny voice, what with his tongue doing wonderful, luscious things to my mouth, and his fingers hurriedly unbuttoning my coat. 

However, after a minute or two of fervent snogging on the hall rug—where, by the way, Malfoy’s hands appeared to be exploring every inch of my torso they could reach beneath my coat, which was half-on-half-off at this stage—I pushed him off, extremely reluctantly, and with a quite bit of difficulty as my arms were sort of pinned due to the aforementioned half-on-half-off state of play. His whimper of unhappiness at that was pleasing, I won’t lie.

"Malfoy," I panted, as he leaned back down to me and began sucking my earlobe.

“ _Potter_ ,” he whispered into my ear.

"Malfoy, _wait_ ," I had to add, because now he was trailing little kisses down my neck and mumbling something about _bloody merino wool typical Potter_ which made little to no sense. “What are we doing? Do we… do you really want this?”

"I'm terrible, Potter," he was mumbling into my chest. "So very, very bad."

"What are you on about? You're not terrible. You're the opposite of terrible. You're— Wait. What are you— Are you rubbing your face on my jumper?"

"So soft," he nuzzled. "And I _am_. I'm terrible at keeping away from _you_ , you bastard. Why can't I do that? Why can't I do that one thing?"

A hand slipped under my jumper and I made a noise and maybe jumped a little—such as I could with a six foot tall man lying on top of me. But Merlin, his fingers were _cold_. 

"Malfoy!" I laughed. 

"Good gracious, you're squirmy. Hold still."

He shoved my jumper up, did some sort of shimmy-slide down my body, and began kissing my stomach. His nose was ice-cold and I yelped again. He laughed and the rumble and huff of it felt like love. 

Love. There was that word again. That ridiculously barmy word. It had been less than a week since Malfoy had shown up at my house in his crisp blue robes and spoken about forced betrothal, and here I was fucking thinking about _love_. It was laughable. 

So, the moron I am, I laughed. Malfoy squeaked as my stomach jiggled about. 

"What's so funny? Bit bloody rude, laughing when I'm trying to ravish you."

His pointy chin dragged through the hair at my abdomen and it _tickled_ , and fuck, it was doing things to me. I was laughing and my dick was getting hard, and I was loving it. Loving him.

"You're brilliant," I gasped, gulping a breath between laughter. "Pointy, but brilliant."

"Mmmpf," he burred into my stomach. " 'Course I am.” I giggled at the vibrations and he hummed warmly into my skin, which didn't help the titters one bit. “Who could have guessed the Chosen One was so ticklish?"

And so what, I thought, so what if it's only been a week since things got, well… intense? I'd known the fucker half my life, and really, it had always been intense between us. Always been charged. A little bit electric. Maybe now our opposing charges had finally grown large enough to create a lightning spark. Merlin, that was so cheesy. I felt tipsy. Which reminded me—

"You're also _drunk_ ," I pointed out. Wow, I thought, I must properly love him or I’d be just letting him have his way with me and not giving much of a fuck what happened afterwards.

"Mmm not." He was tugging on the hair below my navel with his lips. And gods, it was sending urgent messages to my groin. "You're so fuzzy. All muscles and fuzz." 

"You'll be sorry," I protested. 

"No, _you'll_ be sorry, Scarhead, if you don't stop that wriggling and let me worship your bloody fuzzy tummy right now." 

“I mean you’ll be sorry you did this. Regret it. Like the last time.” 

That made him stop and look up. And a part of me was screaming at myself not to ruin this moment—primarily the part that was between my legs, which, you know, twenty-year-old bloke here, let's not forget.

“Me, regret it?” he said, his fingers gripping the hem of my jumper. “ _You_ must be the drunk one, Potter. You’re the one who regret— Wait, no.” He looked up around the dimly-lit hallway and then back down, eyes darting between me and him, wide with panic. “Goodness, Potter. I’m accosting you. I’m sorry, I don’t know—”

“Malfoy.” I gripped his wrist. “Malfoy. Calm down.”

“Yes.” He was blinking rapidly, but thankfully the panicked look was fading. “You nodded, though. Right? Earlier. I didn’t dream that. You want this.”

“One hundred per cent. I just wanted to check it wasn’t just the drink. We were a little pissed, when we… the last time, when we, um...” 

“Partook in a carnal act?” he said, smirking, and the way he enunciated the words in his cut-glass accent sent heat roaring through my chest. Christ, I wanted him. 

Still lying on top of me, he rolled his hips slowly, just enough that I could feel the hard length of him against my leg. And fuck it, that sealed the deal.

“Yeah,” I breathed. 

I dragged him bodily back up towards my face. There was a brief scuffle as I divested him of his jacket, which I felt compelled to remind him made him look cute as fuck, then I slid my hands through his hair, which… Merlin, so silky. He purred appreciatively and I pulled him down for a kiss. 

* * *

Let's face it. Potter was correct. I was awfully drunk. And awfully horny. And... just behaving plain awfully.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t enjoying the snogging and the full-on filthy grinding—Salazar, it was incredible, Potter’s greedy little noises were extremely arousing, and his fingers in my hair, dragging and tugging, were ineffably _divine_ —but his words had spooked me a little. 

What _was_ I doing? I was undoing all my years of trying _not_ to do exactly this. 

I mulled over the wisdom of our current activities—intermittently I might add, as Potter snaking a hand between our writhing hips and squeezing my cock was a little distracting. I rocked into his palm and took a very sweet and rather lengthy pause from my mulling. 

Potter was babbling, "Ah, Malfoy... feel so good. So hard for me. Wanna suck you, suck your brains out. Well, not your brain; you need it, is the thing, for thinking and figuring shit out. Merlin, I _love_ your brain. It’s so _clever_. But what was I saying? Oh yeah, can I suck you off, please? _Please_?"

I may have groaned at that, his gross ineloquence be damned, and ground into him a little more fiercely, and maybe even sucked at his neck a tiny bit, in that heady dip where it met his clavicle. 

But, tempting as his offer was, and it _was_ (unbearably so), his slurring and babbling bore all the hallmarks of intoxication. And thus, I had what I firmly believed to be a brainwave. Though in hindsight I was in perilous danger of cockblocking myself like a bloody idiot. 

"You wouldn't…" I panted into Potter's exposed neck, "happen to have any…" gods, he smelled good, his usual wintery warm spice with a hint of smoky pub. 

"Lube? Oh, bloody good idea. Yeah. You should totally put your cock in me. The Malfoy cock. As long as I can suck on it for a bit first, mind. Yeah, I'll—"

"Gods, Potter, you'll be the death of me. I was going to ask if you had any Sobering Potion?" 

"Huh? You wanna… so you _are_ drunk? Aha! I knew it! Your nose is just too pink and cute. Had to be 'cause of drink."

"Malfoy noses are not cute! They are noble and aristocratic and… and… not cute."

"They're pointy and cute. I wonder if Malfoy cocks are pointy and cute too. I’d know if I ever got to see one." He wiggled his eyebrows.

"Merlin, Potter, your dirty talk needs a _lot_ of work."

He threw me his pathetic eyes then, and I noticed he'd stopped rubbing me through my jeans. "Jeez, you blow hot and cold," he grumbled.

"Don't misinterpret me. I'm very much aroused by you and by your… your offer to service me orally. And I would very much like to take you up on it, it's just—"

"Christ, Malfoy. I'm not the Queen of England inviting you to tea. You can dial down the formal."

"Oh shut up, Potty. I just think we should probably see if we still want to engage in this in the cold light of sobriety. Whilst I really do want to take advantage of you in this position, very, very much, I… well, I suppose I _don't_ want to take advantage of you. I… uh, I care about you too much." And I just knew my face had gone bright magenta. 

He threw his arm over his face. "Nine years. Nine years I've known you, and it still bugs the shit out of me when you're right." 

* * *

Toothpaste. Cotton buds. Hair ties. A tube of Deep Heat. A tub of Sleekeazy gel. 

Maybe it was right at the back. 

Tampons? Merlin, how long since I cleared out this cabinet? 

Oh, fucking hell. “ _Accio_ Sobering Potion,” I said.

I caught the yellow bottle as it flew off the shelf, sending a pack of disposable razors flying, which I neatly dodged. 

Oh bugger. 

One very empty bottle of Belvedere's Sobering Tonic. 

"Why am I not surprised?" drawled Malfoy from where he was draping himself over my sofa, in what I reckon he thought was a coquettish manner, but was somewhat ruined by him hiccupping, then scrunching up his eyes and laughing silently to himself. 

Fuck, he was hot though. I sort of just wanted to tear the shirt off him and lick those sodding pink nipples that were always standing prettily to attention whenever I glimpsed them in the Ministry shower rooms. I shook my head to dispel the thought.

"There must be a charm or something, a courtesy spell, maybe?" I asked.

"Must be," he agreed. "Can't think what, though. Maybe Disintoxico or something… Or is it Anti Boozo?" He pulled his wand out with a flourish. "Allow me."

"Aaah no, hold on. Not sure I'm happy to be your iffy charms guinea pig."

"If that's a role play thing, Potter, I'm listening. Though I'll tell you straight out of the gate, I'll not be dressing up in some cheap synthetic fur costume." 

"Oh gods, did you really need to put that image in my head? No. Merlin, no." I sat down next to him and stroked his leg. Shit, those jeans were criminally tight. "No, I think we either fuck drunk… or don’t fuck? And ugh, I feel like it’s gonna be the ‘don’t fuck’ option, isn’t it, and it’s a crying shame because I really do wanna fuck you, Malfoy."

Three things happened at the same time. Malfoy made a tiny weak noise, his Adam's apple bobbed, and his eyes widened. A second later, he rearranged his features and sniffed, “I thought _you_ wanted to be the fuckee.”

“That’s not even a word,” I said.

“You’ve heard of a _fucker_ ,” he said airily, “I’ll help you out; I was one to you in school for six years straight. So, it stands to reason there should be a fuckee, too. _Quod erat demonstrandum_ and all that rot. Anyway, make me some tea, Potter, I’m parched, and it might just sober me up.” He yawned then, long and loud and tunefully erotic to my sozzled ears. “And make sure it’s that good stuff that Kreacher always serves me.”

Fucker was right, I thought, as I set the teabags—the posh type—into mugs and spelled some boiling water; a bossy fucker was what he was. And what did that make _me_ , seeing as I was completely and hopelessly turned on by it? 

Colin cooed at me from his cage. “I know, mate,” I said to the bird. “I know.”

* * *

I awoke to the most irritating birdsong imaginable. _Chirrup chirrup chirrup;_ a Pine Warbler if I was not mistaken. Trilling uncannily like those annoying alarm spells some wizards use. 

I knew it _couldn’t be_ an alarm spell due to the fact that, as a rule, I never set a wand alarm, preferring of course to rely on my magical core to alert me to when morning had arrived. Which it did, like clockwork. In fact, I don't believe I'd overslept since Crabbe slipped me that Draught of Peace in sixth year, and Merlin, was I in need of it back then… No. I was just _too_ Pureblood it seemed. Modern wizards had all but forgotten the old ways, and as such relied on wand alarms and modified Tempus spells and Muggle devices and the like. 

So, you can imagine my surprise when I realised that, not only _was_ the sound emitting from a wand, it was not even _my_ wand. And not only was there clearly _another_ wand in the vicinity, it appeared, in all actuality, following my bleary examination of the maroon drapes and mismatched bed coverings and the awful puce lampshade, that I was not even in _my own_ bedroom. And it occurred to me then—seeing as this was not even my own bed or even bedroom—that perhaps I should take some note of the solid presence next to me, the one that was snoring delicately, and looking an awful lot like a semi-naked Potter.

Well.

This was something. 

It had been some time since I’d woken up in another man’s room. And if truth be told, I’d been horribly drunk that time, too, on innumerable artificially-flavoured shots at a student bar in Exeter. I’d awoken in a single bed in a musty bedsit with a sore head and an even sorer arse, and had crept down a creaky carpeted dank stairwell in the chill of early morning, while the Muggle student I'd clearly permitted to shag me dribbled on his pillow in naked sweaty slumber, and I'd made a point of never returning to _that_ bar again. 

And that was precisely what I planned to do again here—grab my things and tiptoe out. Only, the thing was, my head didn’t seem overly sore, and a few experimental clenches told me my arse was in reasonable order, too. Nor did my throat bear the telltale tenderness of a thorough blowjob (and believe me, I was _always_ thorough). What exactly had we got up to? 

I thought back to the tea we’d shared in the living room, the fragrant Earl Grey gratifyingly hot and soothing, right down to my toes. Potter had been talking about what he’d learned that day in class, about vampire lore and the rights of the undead, and half-absently rubbing the soles of my socked feet that I'd snuck into his lap. Thumbs pushing rhythmically into the balls of my feet, not unlike the preparatory kneading of a drowsy cat, except that the purring was coming from me, rather than him. 

I honestly could not recall what we did after that. 

And yet. 

And yet here I was, in bed with Potter. In bed with _Potter_ and, I realised to my shock and amusement, I was wearing the thin orange t-shirt and scandalous jogging bottoms that had so distracted me exactly a week ago when Potter’d bent over that I'd choked on my tea. And Merlin, they were comfy, and worn soft as silk. I pulled the t-shirt collar to my nose and inhaled. Gods! Citrusy and spicy like Potter. 

"That's clean out of the wash, mate, so if it stinks it's all you." 

I jerked the collar down in horror and was met with green eyes blinking at me in amusement. I blinked back.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," he said then, the bugger, delivering the greeting with the most dazzlingly shy lopsided smile that I thought my heart might burst with fondness. "Well rested, then?"

"Ahm, yes, actually. I'm feeling surprisingly refreshed… considering…"

"Considering?" Potter was smirking now. 

"Considering the amount that I had to drink, and eh, what we… um, whatever we… ahh..." 

"You can’t remember, can you?" His smirk had broadened and a deep dimple had appeared in the apple of his right cheek. 

"I can!" 

Potter said nothing, just continued smiling at me in that sleepy, infuriating manner.

“Well,” I admitted, “some details may be a little fuzzy. You might, ah, fill me in?” 

“How far do you remember? Past the point when you begged me to tie you up with my Gryffindor scarf? Or only as far as the pushy rimming?”

All moisture fled my mouth. “P-potter? I… Did we...”

“I’m messing with you, you muppet,” he laughed. “You passed out on the sofa after you drank your tea.” 

“Ugh, how embarrassing,” I said. “So we didn’t… Nothing happened? Goodness…”

“Nah. I wanted to, though,” he said. “But instead I had to make do with the thrill of heaving you into bed, and getting you into some comfy clothes.”

“Fucking hell,” I grimaced. “I just want you to know one thing: you are an arse of the highest order.”

“ _Finally_ , you admit it,” he grinned. “You rank my arse amongst the best.”

“You are actually intolerable, you do realise that, right.” I was seriously warring with an extremely stupid smile, and beginning to lose the battle.

“Well, at least I didn’t leave you naked in bed! Though to be fair that would have been a nightmare for me, more than anything. I’d never have been able to keep my hands off you if you were starkers.”

“Oh,” was all I could say, face heating and cock beginning to show some interest. My eyes drifted down over Potter’s sculpted torso, his loam-dark nipples, his solid arms, one propping up his head as he considered me with amusement, and all of a sudden I realised I might never ever be _here_ again, in _this_ situation, and I wouldn’t be a true Slytherin if I didn’t press this to my advantage, now would I? Throwing my carefully constructed caution to the wind, I took hold of the hem of my borrowed t-shirt and slowly pulled it over my head. I smirked as I tossed the bright orange garment to the floor “And what about now? How does sober Harry Potter react?”

To say his face took on a heated expression would be an understatement. My body hummed with excitement and nerves and _what next_. I held his stare as he raked his eyes over me, and it occurred to me that their greenness was the perfect complement to the ugly puce lampshade and the maroon curtains. They were eyes that held too much possibility, and I couldn’t suppress a tremble under their intense gaze, at Potter’s nearness, at something I couldn’t even articulate but that was making my stomach perform a terrifying swoop of panic and yearning.

I only realised I was gripping the bedsheet when he stroked a thumb over my white knuckles and pried my fingers open. As I released the sheet, he entwined our fingers and then guided my hand beneath the sheets to his tented boxers and pressed it against the hard heat there.

“This is how I react.” 

For a heartstopping moment I thought I was going to come right there and then, simply from the shock of Potter’s brazen look and the feel of his cotton-clad cock in my hand. But I gathered my wits—thankfully I still possessed a few—and I dared to slide my hand away from the protrusion in his pants and around his hipbone to clasp his arse. 

"Well, well," I said. "And just what do you propose I do… about such an audacious and improper reaction?" 

Potter bit his lip. "I told you last night."

"Ah," I said, remembering. 

"Would you like to fuck me, Malfoy?" His voice was hoarse. Ragged. "Because I think you would." 

His words were like a sharp jab of a hex, intense and startling, but I needed to stay cool. I reminded myself that I knew this dance, and how to choreograph it; I needed to treat this like any other fuck and not let the fact that it was Potter— _Potter!_ —overwhelm me. So, I gripped his arse harder, pulled him towards me and kissed him hard. He kissed me back hungrily and pulled me into an even closer embrace, his hands moving hot against my waist, the small of my back, my shoulder blades. The blood rushing to my cock almost distracted me from the split-second icy tingle in our mouths. A _Novamintus_. Potter and his bloody courtesy charms… did the man never ask first? 

"Turn over,” I whispered as his mint-fresh tongue moved over my lips. “I'll open you up.”

Potter groaned and gritted his teeth. He thrust his groin firmly into me and kissed me again sloppily, swiping his tongue around mine before breaking away and lithely flipping over. He tucked his knees under him, pressing his chest into the mattress and pushing his arse skyward. I sucked in a breath. He was glorious. 

“So keen for me,” I smiled. 

“You have no idea, Malfoy,” he said, voice muffled by the pillow. 

He still had his blue boxer briefs on, and his legs trembled as I caressed the swell of his balls through the material, then traced my finger up the cotton crease and watched as goose pimples erupted across his thighs. A thrill shuddered through me, too.

I peeled his pants off slowly, unwrapping his offering, his gift, his fucking _incredible_ arse, and when he was finally naked before me I took a long lingering look—it was like every erotic imagining I’d ever had about him rolled into one. 

“Malfoy,” he groaned, “ _please_.” 

I wet my lips. If this was my only chance to _have_ Potter, I was going to fucking devour him.

* * *

I was going to go out of my mind if Malfoy didn’t hurry up and fuck me. I was bare and exposed and so turned on it wasn’t funny.

“Malfoy,” I begged, clenching my fists, “ _please_.” 

And then I felt his warm breath sighing against my balls. A breathless moment later, there was a low chuckle and then a wet wash of tongue. Heat churned low in my gut. I tried to keep my reactions at bay but I couldn’t help a shivering moan. He chuckled and murmured _minty here too._ So, he had noticed my spell.

His mouth was at my arse then, and he was pursing and releasing his lips and the friction was maddening. His fingers pulling my cheeks apart—there’d be bruises—stretching the skin around my hole, his filthy mouth alternating wet tonguing jabs with snowdrifts of sweet soft kisses, forcing me to tense and relax, tense and relax, until finally I gave up and unclenched, and immediately his tongue was in me. Fucking Slytherin, I thought, huffing a laugh through dizzy pants.

His tongue was ruthless and insistent. But it wasn't enough, and I wasn’t afraid to beg.

"Please, I need…”

“Lube?” Malfoy gasped against my sensitive flesh.

I Summoned the tube from my nightstand and was rewarded moments later with two slippery fingers pressing into me, probing, prying, and I just... opened. For Malfoy. God.

It wasn’t long before he was sliding his fingers back out of me, and I felt light-headed as he shuffled about behind me, and there was the unmistakable squirt-noise of lube, and I was sure I heard him swearing, _fucking hell, Potter_ , his normally crystal tones thick and dark with what had to be want.

And then I felt the press of him, blunt and fat and thrilling, and I pushed back, hard as I could, wincing as resistance gave way to a barbarous raw slide all the way in. I loved that full feeling, and all the more now because it was _Malfoy_. There was so much unspoken between us still. So much I needed to say. But right now all I could do was squeeze around his hard length and growl ‘ _move_.’

And he fucked me, just liked I’d asked him to; it wasn’t love-making, it was hard and bruising and merciless. And I needed it, Merlin, I needed it from him. The frustration of not knowing, the uncertainty of how he felt about me, if he felt anything, was all being pounded out of me, and it felt good.

But as my pleasure built and built I noticed a slowing from him, rather than the opposite. He spread himself over my back as he fucked into me, all skin and heat, and I felt his hard nipples on my back, his morning stubble on my shoulder and then his cool hands on me, one gripping my bicep and the other through my hair, fingernails scraping across my scalp. And then he was kissing my neck, soft, open-mouthed, wet, and it was so shockingly tender, so loving, that I couldn't help the pleasure of it bubbling through me and shooting right out of my cock onto the rumpled sheets beneath. 

My legs gave out then, and I sank onto my stomach, Malfoy a heavy weight on top of me, still thrusting sweatily and pulling on my hair, and it was then, as the roaring in my brain quieted down, I could hear him whispering wetly against my nape, with each sharp slide in, _Harry fucking Potter... so good… Harry fucking Potter… oh gods_ , _oh gods, oh,_ barely audible but thrilling and weird and, oh, there we were, he was tensing up and moaning proper now, and coming deep inside me, shoving my whole body faceward into the pillow with one last hard thrust. 

I'm really not sure if it was minutes or hours later but he pulled out of me eventually, rather brusquely if I'm honest, and rolled over onto his back, and then so did I, and he cleaned us up, wandlessly, and we just lay there, panting, for a bit. Collecting ourselves, I wanted to think. Or just studying the ceiling mouldings.

Eventually he sat up on his elbows and looked around. His nipples were so soft-looking now. Candy-floss pink and innocent alongside the silvered scars I’d put there.

“They’re over there on the ottoman,” I said, gesturing to Malfoy’s shirt and jeans that I’d liberated from him the night before. It'd felt forbidden and brilliant to undress him while he was semi-conscious, and I'd taken a good long look at him before putting comfy clothes on him, and lightly traced those very scars with shaking fingertips, but it’d take a vat of Veritaserum to draw that truth out of me.

“Thank you,” he replied, getting up off the bed. 

Malfoy walked to the corner of the room to retrieve his clothes. I swallowed thickly as he bent over to pull on his boxer briefs, as it afforded me the briefest glimpse of a pink puckered hole surrounded by pale hair. A hundred impulsive urges rushed through my brain, and I licked my lips and swallowed again to restore some moisture.

Clearing my throat, I went for it: “ _So_ , I thought that _maybe_ we could, er, give this a proper shot?” It hadn’t meant to come out as a question, but my voice rose an octave as I spoke so that’s how it ended up.

“Come again?” he said, hopping around as he pulled on his scandalously tight jeans.

“Us. Maybe go on a date. Like, something official.” 

He stopped hopping and fixed me with a look I couldn’t decipher. I held my breath.

“Don’t,” he said eventually.

“Don’t what?” 

“You don't have to... Look, I enjoyed that immensely, Potter, don’t get me wrong… but _don't_ let's muddle this up by pretending there are feelings involved.” 

“But I…” This was not going the way I’d hoped. How could I tell him that there _were_ feelings, that there was one bloody big feeling, and I’d just realised it and wanted to do something about it, and—

“You’re an attractive fellow, and I'm a drop-dead gorgeous man. We fucked. The Earth moved with the force of our orgasms, et cetera. But I do not require flowers and chocolates and champagne to help _you_ feel better about it. Now let's focus on what we need to do this weekend. Monday is the twelfth day, and it’s Saturday morning already.” He shrugged into his shirt and began fiddling with the cuffs.

“Malfoy…” I hated the pleading tone in my voice, but not as much as I hated the sneer that had crept onto his face.

“Yes?” He spoke so airily, as if he hadn’t just brutally gutted me. 

“Nothing.”

“All right,” he said, and “good,” like that decided everything, though his voice sounded a little reedy. Then he clapped his hands and brightly said, “So!” Too brightly, I thought. “There was something I meant to tell you about. Granger’s hit on a solution! Or so she claims. She was telling me last night.”

As he buttoned up his shirt, he filled me in on what she’d said to him, which surprisingly he seemed to recall with no problem. So, I was apparently to make my way over to her after I’d braved the Antique Shop, as Malfoy was _frightfully busy all morning_ with some prior engagement. 

I tried to talk to him again about going out for a date but he shut me down a second time, informing me curtly that if he wanted to get home and showered and into some fresh day robes, he needed to get going right away.

I was getting so fucking sick of this. 


	10. Chapter 10

Well, I _was_ frightfully busy all morning. I was having tea at Pansy’s.

“So,” I began, settling myself as best I could on the uncomfortable bar stool at her marble-topped kitchen island, “have you and Blaise made up yet?”

“Oh heavens, no,” said Pansy, shuddering and closing her eyes as if to fend off the very thought. “No, that’s _over_. For good this time. No, too much of a narcissist! The man has love bites on his own mirror, for Merlin’s sake. And when he’s not eye-fucking himself in the nearest reflective surface, he’s chatting up anything in a skirt or tight trousers; I couldn’t bear it any longer.”

“Right. Because you’re _so_ the monogamy type yourself?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, you cheeky brat. I’m a one-man woman... Well, one man at a time, at least. Anyway, I _met_ someone last night. Harvey. He’s lovely… or possibly Harrison? I wrote it down somewhere.” She began rifling through her handbag on the worktop, the gold chain of the strap clunking expensively against the marble.

I watched as she pulled out a pack of clove cigarettes, an expensive-looking lippy in a damson shade, and a packet of Polo mints. “Sounds like another one of your ‘til dawn do us part’ relationships, Pans.”

“Oh, piss off, won’t you? Harvey was a perfect gentleman, he bought me a few drinks, we chatted, _nothing_ happened—well, except for a bit of a gropey snog—and I’ll have you know he’s taking me to Shelhurst’s tonight for dinner. So there! Wait, here we are…” She peered at a lurid pink and orange striped matchbook. “Herman. _Herman’s_ taking me to Shelhurst’s.”

Thinking back, I suppose it was a _little_ rude of me to laugh in her face right then. “Smart chap, this Herman. If he’d said Luigi’s on Peckham High Street you’d have ditched him in a flash. Perhaps he’s heard what a snob you are.”

“How very dare you. I am not a snob. Ask anybody. Well... anybody that _matters_. Herman simply knows how to treat a lady.”

I snorted.

“Ah yes. A lady. What is it you say all the time?" I cleared my throat, and stuck my nose in the air for good measure. "’A _lady_ is a woman who never shows her underwear unintentionally.’ Hmm. I suppose you just about squeak into that category. If we were to ignore that time you were doing drunken midday cartwheels in Tavistock Square, and that other time you—”

“Merlin! You are a _heel_. I really don’t know why I’m friends with you.”

“Probably because my life is even more depressing than yours. It makes you feel superior.”

Her eyes lit up. " _Draco_. Sounds to me like you've got a little gripe you'd like to share." 

" _Pansy_ ," I replied, in the same tone. "Yes... very well. Though what I'm about to tell you is quite the opposite of little. And you must _promise_ not to tell the others." 

"Of _course_ , darling. But you'd better make it quick. They'll be here any minute."

"Well, you know how I'm tragically attracted to Potter—" 

"Tragically in deep, deep sickening love, yes." 

Pausing first to give her my sharpest scowl, I recounted the events of the past week, at which she was gratifyingly aghast. Particularly at the threat of my disinheritance from the Malfoy fortunes, such as they were. She did, however, seem to think Lucius was on to something, the wench.

"But Draco _darling_ , you and Potter _would_ make an excellent match!"

"I suppose it's too modern a concept to prefer to be engaged to someone who _loves_ me rather than the complete opposite? Hatred is really _not_ the ideal basis for a convivial life of matrimony."

"Potter doesn't hate you, you dolt."

"Well, he'd hate to be betrothed to me, that much is clear."

"Oh, honestly, the melodrama is exhausting today, Draco. Anyway, everyone knows that hate is _not_ the opposite of love. Indifference is."

"What- _ever_ ," I shrugged with exaggerated boredom, but my _bon mot_ was lost on her.

"And he is certainly not indifferent to you… from what you've just told me." 

"He _was_ rather amorous this morning, I must say," I replied, trying and failing to keep the gloating tone out of my voice. 

“Was he indeed? Lucky you," she drawled, "if it’s true what they say about his ten-inch cock.”

“Oh shut it, you depraved hag,” I laughed, “though, to be fair, Witch Weekly haven't got it _very_ far wrong.”

She tilted her head, and threw me an ‘I told you so’ expression that was most irritating.

"He says he thinks we should date. That he wants to be my— Oh, gods, I can’t say it.”

“Your beau?” Pansy giggled.

“You are monstrous, Pansy, honestly. But yes.” I gestured to her dismissively and fluttered my eyes. “That.” 

Boyfriends, he’d said. And my heart had screamed and thumped savagely at my ribcage. Surely that’s less scary than fiancés, he’d argued. He didn’t know that it was the most scary and distressing thing imaginable, _and_ that I wanted it so very fucking much. A person like me appreciated nice things, but it doesn't mean I always deserved them.

Pansy was still smirking. I sighed. “Alas, I really do think he's just trying to make the best of the situation. A sort of selfless _Gryffindor_ gesture, all because he doesn't really believe we'll find a way to break this Twelve Days thing. Though he’s heading off to Granger’s place later, and Merlin, it’s worrying me that—"

A _woofff_ from the living room alerted us to someone's arrival. Interrupted, we made our way through to see Daphne stepping out of the Floo, but not before I hissed, "It’s a _secret_ , Pansy. That means no blabbing."

"Of course, Of course!" she purred back. "I’ll make _sure_ to tell everyone it’s a secret." I prodded her in the ribs. She retaliated by pinching the back of my upper arm. Hard. That was going to bruise. 

Daphne hadn't heard a word, thank Circe, and it was air kisses and 'dahlings' all round, and shortly after that Theo arrived through the Floo in a puff of fragrant smoke. Such a sweetheart, he'd brought an antique copper Chinese teapot from his auction room for Pansy, and she was entranced—she collects teapots, you understand. It rather cheered me up. I really did love to see Pansy happy, despite my giving her a hard time at almost every opportunity. 

Daphne plopped herself down at the kitchen table with a harried sigh, picked up a knife and began viciously slathering a scone with jam. “Salazar, those fucking dreary desiccated windbags on the Hogwarts staff, I'm so fed up with them. That Alicia Spinnet is so _self-righteous_ these days, and don't get me _started_ on Neville Longbottom. Such a goody two-shoes, and far too many muscles than is seemly for a dowdy Herbology Professor.”

“ _Daphne_ ,” Pansy admonished, “If you haven't got anything good to say about anyone… well, you can keep talking. I’ve made tea… and I see you’ve found the scones.”

Daphne took a bite of her scone. “Draco, _this jam_ ,” she moaned, accepting a floral china cup from Pansy filled with fragrant tea.

“Ah, you like? I added a little champagne to this batch, I think it really gives it a zing. Try it with a dollop of the clotted cream on top.”

She did. “It’s _divine_. Are you sure you don’t use some complex potion or charm to make it?” 

I may have blushed at that; I was such a sop for a bit of praise. “No, only Muggle techniques. And I’m pleased you like it, because I’ve brought you all a jar to take home with you.” 

“I could kiss you!” she exclaimed.

“I could too,” chimed in Theo. “But for very different reasons. You’re looking very dashing today, and if I’m not mistaken, rather well-shagged.”

“Fuck off!” I protested, though without much force. “You’re such a tart, Theo,” I added, tucking into my tea and scone to prevent myself from saying anything more. He really was an inveterate flirt.

A pleasant morning was had, all in all. Theo updated us on his new boyfriend, Bennett, who ran a rival auction house (what _was it_ about the attractiveness of rivals?), and Daphne brought us all the Hogwarts gossip—she'd been History of Magic Professor there for the last year, and a damn good one apparently. Not a soul, living or dead, missed Professor Binns, which is no surprise. Last I heard he'd gone to haunt the Hog's Head. Boring the socks off the patrons on a nightly basis, no doubt. Either way, Daphne was a breath of fresh air, bringing _Hogwarts: A History_ to life by all accounts. 

After they’d all left, Pansy asked for a word, before I too headed back to my flat.

“I’ve been thinking about your little quandary, Draco darling,” she said, smoothing down the front of my robes and winding my scarf around my neck. “Your Twelve Days of Equivocal Reciprocity,” she said, enunciating each syllable clearly. “To me, your options seem to be: help Granger in whatever this scheme is to annul the ritual, and so become a pauper, cut off from your allowances and income. And of course, that carries the risk of her plan somehow botching up, and with it Potter’s magic and his...” Here the bitch smirked. “...his wedding tackle. Which would be a crime, by all accounts. So, if you’re going ahead with this plan you need to make sure it bloody works. Alternatively, you somehow sabotage Granger’s plans and wind up betrothed to Potter against his will.”

“Yes. That’s a pretty accurate summation. Neither are ideal options, Pans.”

“No… you’re fucked either way. So you might as well get properly fucked.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Have a couple of days of fun with Potter. Before everything goes to total shit.”

“Bloody hell, Pans,” I laughed. Merlin, the woman was a hoot, but there was no way I was following her advice. “I come here for the tea, but I certainly don’t stay for the sage advice.” I grabbed a pinch of Floo powder. “Take care, you hag. It’s been a little slice of heaven as always. I’ll see you on Christmas Eve, if not before.”

* * *

“Aaaah, welcome back, Master Potter.” 

I heard the old lady before I saw her. Scanning the mayhem of the antique bric-a-brac, I eventually spotted some movement to the right of a shelf of Victorian-looking miscellany towards the back, and sure enough, a figure emerged from behind a damask drape, squeezing her way past the softly glowing curios. 

“Uh, hello, Missus… Madam Freyja,” I called. 

"Do come in, dear, I'll just be a tick," she called, and she waved her wand at a mahogany bureau with tarnished brass pulls, which shifted out of her way with a grumbling creak. "I was just sorting out the French faience from the Spanish in the back room." Her eyes crinkled at me and radiated kindness, but I didn't miss her third eye brusquely giving me the once over. "Now. Where's that handsome fiancé of yours? Or are you here to buy him something? A gift! That beautiful Mirecourt violin he had his eye on, perhaps? It's in excellent condition and comes with a snakewood bow strung with hippogriff hair and an excellent quality dragonhide case. Young Timolus took it to a luthier after we acquired it, and I'm assured the sound is beautiful, especially if Master Malfoy has fingers of as much talent as his mother had." 

"His fingers are indeed very skilled," I said, and a blush rose hard and fierce to my cheeks as I recalled the ravening press of them inside me, as Malfoy laved and sucked at my rim, "but, um, I'm actually here to purchase the Christmas baubles he enquired about yesterday."

The old witch narrowed her eyes at me as if she knew the cause of my hot cheeks, and it occurred to me that maybe she did. She just sort of _knew_ things, didn’t she, same way old Moody had. 

Though she’d got it all wrong about me and Malfoy, I thought to myself as, with a flick of her wand, she encased a box of delicate silver decorations in shiny black wrapping paper and secured it with a gold chiffon bow. 

“That’ll be seventy Galleons, please,” said Freyja. 

I may have choked slightly on my own spit. “They’re tree decorations!”

“They’re collector’s items! Your husband-to-be didn’t seem put off by the price.”

Malfoy could have really warned me, the prick. I laughed to myself and then paused, thinking.

"He's not really my fiancé," I decided to say.

"No," she agreed.

"Wait. You knew?"

"I knew it was... complicated."

I looked at her. “So, what was all the hogwash about ‘ _our magical cores reaching out for each other… just begging to be joined_ ’?”

"That wasn't hogwash. I meant it. Your lives revolve around each other. And they have done for many years, or my name isn’t Freyja Bibelot.”

“With all due respect Missus, er, Bibelot, I’m not sure your all-seeing eye is working quite right. We’ve really only just—”

“I don't need the eye to see that you love him."

Cripes, I thought, perhaps the eye was working after all. “But he…” I couldn't believe I was about to talk to an old witch in an antique shop about my love life. “...he doesn’t _want_ me. At least, not that way.”

“Impossible!” she declared. “But then again, he’s a Malfoy of course. So, I’m not surprised you haven’t fully worked him out yet; they can be somewhat opaque." She rolled her three eyes. 

Somewhat opaque… yeah, that sounded about right.

"Now, Master Potter, are you taking these baubles or not?”

“Yes. Yes I’ll take them, thanks,” I said, handing over _an entire bag of coins,_ and making a mental note to ask Malfoy _what the fuck_. As she passed the beautifully gift-wrapped box to me, I said, “Lucius Malfoy better bloody appreciate these.”

“Just a moment, dear,” Freyja said, just as I was about to step away. “These are a gift for your fiancé's father?”

“Well, as I said, he’s not my fiancé, technically… yet.” 

She tilted her head at me, and I could feel her magic, like fingers softly prodding. The third eye turned lazily in its housing, this way and that.

“By Godric,” she said, “it certainly _is_ complicated. Much more than I thought. You poor boy.”

“You can see the bind we’re in?”

“I can sense it.” She hummed thoughtfully for a moment. “Would it be so awful to marry each other?”

“We haven't even been on a date… it’s… it’s too much. And far too quick. And, like I said, he’s not even interested in me that way, doesn’t _want_ to date me. Just seems to want me for… _well_.”

“You don’t think he loves you back?”

“No, I’m afraid not. We just need to figure out how to solve this… ”

“Afraid. Ah, yes, afraid.” Her voice became dreamy “To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are three parts dead.”

Riiight, I thought, looking at my watch. It was time to cut this barmy conversation short.

“Um, I better get going. My friend seems hopeful she can help… and that’s where I’m headed next. Thanks again.”

"So lovely to see you again Mr Potter, though I am sorry about your predicament. As the Muggles say, ‘where there is a will, there is a way’, and I think you might be surprised at how much of a will there is." 

And she said _Malfoys_ were opaque. What was she on about? Malfoy had been very bloody clear that morning about what exactly he had a will for, and it appeared to begin and end in my trousers. 

No, I would just have to squash down my feelings for Malfoy. So too the hard-on that kept threatening every time my mind flashed back to the feel of him, the potent wreathing heat of him draped over my back that morning. Nope. Neither were helpful right now.


End file.
